Feet in the Night

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That night, Candida and I, now fast friends, packed in candlelight, drew the familiar dirty cement bags across the broken door, and huddled together for the last night in Soloara.

I said, "I have to go use the bathroom."
"Yo tambien." Me too, she said.

I was going to drag the cement bags out of the way again, when suddenly: the sound of running, pounding feet around the outside the building.

"Actually, I don't really have to go."
"Yo tampoco." Me neither, she agrees.

We grin at each other, snuff out the candle, and crawl under the bug-netting again.

(We found out the next morning, that the "pounding feet" belonged to one of the other Honduran missionaries making a dash for the washroom himself!)

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