Some nights when the sky broke open over the whole city and it rained for three days, she and Nancy slept and rested. She dreamed of the man who'd finally take her out of the country. The way he looked. What clothes he wore. The way he combed his hair. The scent of him. Soft hands. Manicured hands. The hands of a man who didn't work as a carpenter or a plumber. A professional man.

Her galan in shining armor, Nancy always said. Nancy was learning English because she wanted to live in New Orleans. She said her dream would come true pretty soon too. She kept her hopes high. She'd been in Habana all her life, and she knew better because she'd been to the outside. She knew what it was like.

At night when it rained the frogs came out and started their racket. And she hated frogs because they reminded her of her lost childhood in Pinar del Rio. She hated them because they hid in toolsheds, in the cool shadows. She couldn't sleep until they hushed their mockery.

The rain reminded her of water, and water took her far to other places. One time she almost thought of leaving on a raft, but she knew better—she knew what the sun and sea salt could do to the skin. But she would leave one day soon. Of that much she was certain.