Hurricane by Terry Trueman Read Free Book Online Page B

my neighbors and friends, I feel proud of us all.
    As I’m finishing my meal, Mom says, “José,” and signals with a tilt of her head for me to follow her.
    I set my plate down and go. As we walk out the back door, I look at the huge boulder, thinking again how lucky we were that it stopped rolling when it did. I’ve set up Mom’s small barbecue near the big boulder. Our stack of firewood is wet, but with enough newspaper we easily got a fire going.
    Mom shuts the door behind us. I see the worry in her eyes. I’m surprised to see Mom like this. She’s been so strong. I think about the way she’s held Juan, the way she spoke to Alfredo, and how she has made all our neighbors feel so comforted and welcome. To see her scared now makes me afraid too.
    â€œLook,” Mom says, opening the black plastic garbage bags that hold our supplies of beans and rice.
    I’m shocked by how little is left. I ask, “How can there be so little food?”
    Mom answers, “There are just so many of us.”
    She’s right. She’s cooked servings for ten people for two days now.
    Mom’s next words jar me. “We have to find more food, fast !”
    I say, “But all the houses are buried.”
    Mom nods and stares at the ground for a moment.
    I say, “Maybe I could walk to San Pedro Sula and bring back what we need.”
    Even as I say this, I know it’s a stupid plan. San Pedro Sula might as well be a million miles away with all this mud and the flooding we’ve heard about on María’s radio.
    Mom says, “San Pedro is too far.”
    â€œI know. Maybe help will come. Maybe …” I feel so stupid. If Dad and Víctor were here, what would they do? I can’t think of any good ideas at all!
    Trying to keep the worry out of my voice, I ask, “Where will we find food?”
    â€œMaybe the Arroyos’?” Mom says gently and a little bit guiltily.
    Of course! The Arroyos’ little grocery! Their trucha had lots of canned goods—milk, beans, baby food, fruit, vegetables, meat, tuna—lots of stuff.
    I ask, “How can we get it?”
    Mom says, “You’ll have to dig. The Arroyos would have been the first to help us if …” She hesitates.
    I know that she is right, and I agree with her. “I’ll dig.”

EIGHT

    The first thing this morning, the third day after the mudslide, Mr. Larios, Mr. Barabon, and Jorge Álvarez come with me to dig in the mud where the Arroyos’ place used to be. Because it stopped raining an hour or so ago, the mud has begun to dry. By taking soft steps, we can actually walk without sinking down very far. It doesn’t take us long to reach the Arroyos’.
    For a long time we just stand there, staring at the dark muck. Finally I say to the others, “I think I know about where the store was.” I hesitate for a second and point to the ground. “The store was here, but the mud has moved everything back. Look at their roof.” The broken, splintered lumber and metal roofing is scattered on the ground, twenty-five to thirty feet back from the street, as if the storm simply grabbed it and flicked it away. I feel a small rush in my stomach and throat, like I might throw up, but I try to sound calm and sensible. “Maybe the mud pushed everything back. Maybe we should start digging about there,” I say, pointing to a spot ten feet or so from where we’re standing; this is where I guess the little trucha part of the house might be now. My workmates nod, and we begin digging.
    It’s hard work. The mud is sloppy and smells bad. Each shovelful seems heavier than the last. The blisters on my hands from digging before, when we were looking for survivors, tear open and start to bleed, but we all keep digging because the last thing we need is to run out of food.
    What if we’re not even close to where the trucha is?
    What if we can’t find it?
    What