Lila Moreau

Twenty-three days.

I awaken atop the restaurant roof as the sunrise seeps through my eyelids the flavor of gunpowder lingering on my tongue before I even speak. My shoulder once dislocated is now reset (courtesy of Mamá Sofia’s caring grip at 3 a.m.) though it pulses like another heartbeat. The flare gun rests warm on my thigh six made rounds remaining—one, for each year Isla has lived. I carved her name onto each shell with a nail and sheer defiance.

The city is quiet.

Too ...