There were five of us. Eduardo moved in from Ecuador, went back to care for his dying
father, and was banned from returning. Priya flew to Delhi, smuggling a respirator in her
suitcase. Annika made it to Belgium and roamed the gardens alone. Mahmoud ministered to his
grandmother in Cairo, but never left the hospital. I sat alone in the apartment, four bedrooms
empty, T.V. turned loud to Friends, cradling the last beer. Eighteen months later, only two came
back, and we mourned the others together.