Turning in midair, I catch the sill. Like before, I slam against the side of the building. This time I let go. Dropping another few meters, I grip the second-floor sill with my toes momentarily. After drawing a breath, I drop again, this time catching the second-floor sill with my hands. Once more, I drop.

Feeling solid ground beneath me, I open my eyes and scan the walking path in both directions. No one is in sight. I reach beneath my tzotzomatli to check on the small, wooden box full of logwood bark. Securing it, I sprint toward the clinic and Olin.

Other than a single nurse at the receiving desk, the hospital staff are absent. I easily sneak into the staff lounge, where I’ve been living off of stolen scraps of food for the past two weeks, and use the kinetic cooktop to brew the tea.

As I pour the purple liquid into a metal cup, I wonder if being a chadzitzin will result in always being this invisible. If so, survival might not be as hard as I had previously thought.

Tea in hand, I creep past a snoozing janitor and wave politely to the mindless old man from down the hall. He smiles, revealing the absence of all except three teeth. I place a finger to my lips. His eyes widen as he nods his understanding with enthusiasm.

The gesture is probably the only form of communication the man has rightly retrieved from his scattered mind since I first encountered him several days ago. The success of the moment thrills him. Briefly, I watch him as he continues his nightly vigil through the halls. His shuffle becomes pure swagger.

I sigh as I near a corner in the hall leading to Olin’s room. The burden I’ve lived and breathed for the last two weeks settles heavy over me. Like the old man, I need a small victory. Something. Anything to bring back the swagger. Most of all, I need Olin to wake up, so I won’t have to face the future alone.

Before I turn the corner, the face of the dark-skinned boy pops out and back. The suddenness of it stops me in my tracks. Out of sight around the corner, the boy whistles two distinct tones. Then I hear his bare feet slapping a retreat.

Careful not to slosh the tea, I dart after him. “Just tell me your—” I freeze as a short, middle-aged man emerges from a door midway down the hall. He greets the dark-skinned boy. Together they continue in the opposite direction at a calm but steady pace. “Wait!”

My mind spins to catch up with my sprinting feet. As the pair disappears around the next corner, I realize the man came from Olin’s room. Panic constricts my lungs, and I feel as if I’ll stumble headlong and spill the tea.

Of all the stupid things, I cling to a common cup of logwood tea as if it were a miracle cure. But I need it to be.