Page 6 of The Night We Became Strangers

Matías

“W e have in our studio the mayor of Quito,” the announcer said.

“People of Quito,” a different voice said. “Allow us to defend our city. Our women and children should go to the high surrounding areas in order to leave the men free for action and combat.”

It was undeniably our mayor. I recognized his hoarse voice and his meticulous cadence over the radio waves. How ironic that only a few minutes ago, I had resented Delia for treating me like a child, but now I didn’t know if I wanted to be considered a man “ready for action and combat.”

It was impossible for me to unglue my feet from the ground—panicked as I was.

I was still standing by the console radio outside the hotel, just like the statue of independence in the center of the plaza.

The Archbishop of Quito had spoken, too, and this insanity was starting to seem more real by the second.

If at least my parents were here, I would know what to do.

Could they be at the Crónicas building? My dad, who had taken over the newspaper after my grandfather passed away, worked days, but if there had been some sort of emergency at work—and this certainly qualified as one—he would be there.

It was, truly, the only place I could think of going other than the club where he played cards, which was past the newspaper building, anyway.

The voice on the radio blasted again. “It is now nine sixteen p.m. in the capital of Ecuador, courtesy of Naranjada, the unbeatable orange soda. Now in pineapple, too. Just a few moments ago, the minister of government entered our studio. Listeners of Radio La Voz, we have here with us the distinguished Eduardo Salazar Gómez.”

“Unfortunately, compatriots,” he said, “I suspect our weapons do not have the mechanical capacities to counter those of the colossal enemy.”

I didn’t hear the rest of what he had to say. Something had finally snapped inside of me. I had to get out of here. I crossed the street, heading resolutely to the Crónicas building. It was the only way to get answers. As I crossed the street, a woman’s voice called out.

“Someone help me! Please!”

She was sitting on the curb, in obvious distress. A few people trotted ahead of me, clinging on to their scarce belongings. An older woman marched beside me with short, quick steps, her head low, her hands holding her cardigan together, her hair in a knotted bun.

“Hey!” I called out, but she kept walking, repeating a prayer to herself.

“ ?Ayúdeme, por favor! ” the woman on the curb continued to plead for help, and she was looking directly at me.

But I was just a kid. It looked as if she’d fallen. Surely, I could help her get up. I strode down the street toward her. Only as I got close to her did I realize she was pregnant.

“I think the baby is coming,” she said, looking up.

“Right now?”

“Yes.” She was rubbing her lower back. “The baby was supposed to come in a couple of weeks, but I think I precipitated the delivery when I started to run. Please don’t leave me.”

“Where’s your husband?”

“I don’t know. I was all alone at home. When I heard the news on the radio, I went outside to find him.”

I empathized with her as we were in a similar situation—trying to find our loved ones in the midst of this near-apocalypse—but at least I didn’t have a gigantic belly nor was I about to deliver in the middle of a stinky street.

“Where’s your house?” I asked. “Let’s take you there.”

“A few blocks that way,” she said, pointing back, where it was much darker and not at all where I needed to go, “but I don’t want to go home. It feels like this baby is coming out right now and it’s even worse when I walk. You have to take me to a hospital!”

A hospital? Did it look like I had the means to take her to a hospital? I didn’t even have a bicycle, nor did I know where the nearest medical center was! Maybe I looked older than my thirteen years of age. I was, after all, the tallest in my class.

“All right,” I said, “let’s go back to the plaza to see if someone can drive us there. Hold my arm.”

I leaned over and she grabbed my arm, but the minute she stood up, a copious amount of water gushed between her legs.