I imagine you working on me as an algebra problem, reducing me to fractions, crossing out common denominators, until there's nothing left on the page but a line that says x = whatever it is that is wrong with me.

Instead, we linger over a luxury that costs nothing: Imagining what may be.

Rochelle," she calls out, still looking at me. "Is there anyone down at the desk? I need something." I'm too startled to move. Is she going to tell on me, get me in trouble? Rochelle's gotten up; she's banging the toilet stall doors open one by one, checking to make sure no one's in there. When the last stall turns up empty, she gives Amanda an annoyed look. "What do you need this time of night?" Amanda smiles at me, then turns to face Rochelle. "A tampon

Ama wipes her hands on her apron, looks up at our old roof with new eyes, and lifts the baby from his basket. She twirls him in the air, her skirts flying around her ankles the way the clouds swirl around the mountain cap--her laughter fresh and strange and musical to my ears.

Simply to endure is to triumph.

Inside my head I carry: my baby goat, my baby brother, my ama's face, our family's future. My bundle is light. My burden is heavy.

If you look hard enough, chaos turns into order the way letters turn into words.