Free Hurricane by Terry Trueman

dead in my pueblo .... My brother will be dead if I don’t bring help.”
    â€œTalk to the captain, lad,” says the soldier driving the truck.
    I hurry back to the truck with the red crosses on it. A woman soldier is driving and a man soldier with gold bars on his shoulders sits next to her. He has a kind face, which is good because he is a huge man—he must be twice my height and three times my weight. He has red hair and blue eyes and freckles.
    I force myself to speak. “Are you the captain doctor?”
    â€œYes,” he answers kindly, smiling at me. “You speak English, eh?” He doesn’t sound American either—his English sounds strange, like that of the soldiers in the other truck.
    I ask, “Where are you here from?”
    He smiles and says, “We’re with U.N. International Relief. Our squadron is multinational, but I’m from Edinburgh, Scotland.”
    I say, “My brother is very sick. He needs help right away!”
    â€œI’m sorry,” the doctor says, “but we’re under strict orders—”
    â€œBut my brother is just a baby …” I feel tears building up in the back of my throat and at the corners of my eyes. I fight them back. What would Víctor do? What would Dad say? Berti, maybe sensing my mood, rubs against my leg, wagging her tail.
    â€œI’m sorry,” the doctor says again, and I can tell that he is truly sorry, “but we’re under strict orders to go to …” He turns to the lady soldier who is behind the steering wheel. “Where is it, Lieutenant?”
    She says, “Las … Las Ruppa?” pronouncing it wrong.
    â€œLa Rupa?” I ask.
    â€œYes,” the doctor says. “La Rupa. Do you know where it is?”
    â€œYes,” I say quickly. “Yes, I know exactly where La Rupa is.”

THIRTEEN

    Berti sits in the backseat of the truck, and I sit up front, telling them everything—about the rains, the power failure, the mudslide, the water, the food, the Arroyos and all the other dead, and my brother Juan. I try to speak slowly and clearly, and I struggle to remember all the right words in English.
    â€œJesus,” the doctor says, “you really been through it, haven’t ya?”
    I nod.
    He tells me about San Pedro Sula and the other parts of Honduras that he has seen: towns under water, thousands of people waiting on the roads to be rescued, and the horrible damage across the whole country. He tells me about the shelters overflowing with people, so many of them homeless, and about some children stuck on a rooftop for three days and nights after their parents were lost in the flood.
    He says, “People in La Ceiba are fishing from their front porches, catching fish and crawdads from what used to be the streets.”
    â€œLa Ceiba!” I gasp.
    â€œYes. You have people there?”
    I take a deep breath and explain, “My dad and my older brother, Víctor, and my sister haven’t come back from there yet.”
    And now I start rambling, saying crazy-sounding stuff, one stupid thing after another: I talk about Víctor tearing down the barbecue, about Ruby and her modeling portfolio, about my dad and his truck, and about Berti being lost. I know I sound crazy, but I can’t seem to keep from babbling.
    I force myself to slow down, saying, “Of course, maybe they are all right. Maybe they are staying with people somewhere. Maybe they are—” Suddenly I begin to sob. Ashamed, I turn my head away and stare out the window so that they won’t see me cry. From the corner of my eye I see Berti, standing and staring straight at me, worried and protective.
    The doctor asks, “What kind of truck does your father drive?”
    â€œA medium-sized one,” I say.
    I keep staring out the window, but I hear the doctor’s soft smile in his voice. “No, José. I mean, what make, what model, what color is