Over the beaches of Puerto Nuevo, thin, silver beams of moonlight penetrate through the dense fog. Birdsong and David sit at a campfire, talking and laughing with strangers, their faces obscured by the rolling fog. Birdsong watches the light reflect off a guitar case, a silver dog collar, a rusted trashcan, and the back of an old, rusty, red truck. A sleeping dog curls its muscular torso near the warmth of the fire, then grinds and digs in the sand with his hind paws. A man with a guitar is playing Greensleeves and the notes comfort her. Bottles are moving to the right and tea-leaves, rolled in thin rice-paper, are moving to the left. The sweet scent of the burning leaves reminds her of giant pine trees. Birdsong holds David close to her and tries to keep the world in focus, "Together," she says.

            "Together," he says, "I knew it the moment I saw you crying on the subway."

            Her vision beginning to blur, Birdsong rolls onto the dusty sand. Her shoulder-blades dig into the ground, as she stretches her long arms towards the sky. Barely able to stay awake, she focuses on the fire. Soon, she is unable to distinguish the sound of the lapping waves upon the shore with the crackling of the fire. Birdsong feels a tap on her shoulder. She hears a voice that she doesn't recognize and rolls on her side. "Here," the voice calls out, "get onto the blanket."

            "I'm on the sand," she says.

            "I know," echoes the voice, "here, get up on here."

            Birdsong feels her body being touched and her eyes focus for a moment on the comforting face of the guitarist. She thought he must be forty or fifty years old from behind the fire but now--as his face was so close to hers--she realizes he is only a boy and whispers to him, "Too young." Almost asleep, she feels her body being placed upon a blanket and notices David resume a conversation with the young musician. Her eyes close.

            The next morning, Birdsong awakes in an unfamiliar bed. She blinks slowly, opening her eyes to David kneeling beside her, his skin pale, his whole body trembling.

            "I feel hung over," she says.

            "Is that all your feeling?" David says, the warm red skin around his cheeks peeling upwards into a smile. He enjoys her voice.

            "What else?" she says, "Just drank too much."

            Birdsongs' hands are shivering and David takes one reluctantly. She tries to move, but her back is stiff and the muscles in her stomach resist with tension.

            "You're so cold," David says to her.

            "A cold shower," she says.

            "Can you make it?"

            "Of course," she says, pulling her body up. Her head feels steamy-hot. In the end, dizziness wins the battle and she falls back to the bed, turns her head to the side, and lets some of her stomach fall into a grey bucket on the ground.

            "Have I been--"

            "All night," David says.

            Birdsongs' eyes seem sunken into her skin. Her cheeks look grey and the tips of her fingers blue. "What's wrong?" he says, "What can I do?"

            Birdsong tries to speak but finds herself out of breath. She tries to take the musky air deep into her lungs, but they resist. She starts to breathe faster and faster. Each breath more shallow than the one before it.

            A sour smell passes through the room and Birdsong grabs at David, pulling herself from the bed. "You need to take me," she says.

            "I'll try," David says, bringing her towards a small bathroom.

            "Please," she urges him, "Leave."

            "I'll help you, just let me know when you can lie down again." The door shuts abruptly and the water faucet is turned on.

            David hears a wave crash onto the beach and begins to imagine life as a fisherman. He imagines pulling the richest fish from the waters, searing their bodies over a grill, living in the moment, swimming in the waters, and eating only what the hook provides.

That night, her voice was soft and high-pitched; it crept slowly from her weak lips and sounded nothing like the song of a bird. Her eyes sunk deeper into her skin with each blink, and later David was completely unable to find a pulse at her wrist. Her chest heaved and, as her head rolled to the side she said, "thirsty." Her eyes closed and she slept. The sound of engines and stretchers passed unnoticed. She regained consciousness, if only for a minute, and said, "Remember the subway."

There are no walls in the hospital, only rows and rows of yellowed curtains. David sits on a stool, his hands pressed together in quiet prayer, "...obtain for her health in mind and body, and the strength to accept all suffering in union with Christ, our Savior," he says. David tries to continue but hesitates. He looks down the rows of curtains and wishes that one of those yellowed sheets might fold itself up into a pair of wings that would fly his wife back to him; that she might soar above him, watch him fishing on the beaches of Puerto Nuevo. "If you make it through this, I will go fishing and bring you Langosta; I will bring you everything I have to bring."

            The doctor shakes his head, "de Colera."

            David, knowing very little Spanish, struggles to say, "Cholera?"

            The doctor nods.

"Vivir? Living?" David says.

            "No," the doctor says, shaking his head, "murio a las dos."

            A loud crash breaks the silence of the moment and the doctor looks away. Four stretchers are wheeled in and the doctor rushes to them. They disappear behind yellow curtains and David is left alone.

            His mouth peels into a smile. His eyes cry, but David doesn't feel the tears. That night, sitting on the worn barstool in his front yard, David watches a dove cooing at an empty nest. He holds out his hand to the lonely bird and it shuffles out of reach.

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