Prints in the Sand: My Journey with Nanea

I tell Nanea we should keep walking, if we still have time. Nanea nods and we keep going. But doubt creeps in the instant the words leave my mouth. Will we actually beat curfew home, and what happens if we don’t?

Nanea cuts down a side street, promising this shortcut will have us home in no time. I jog to keep up beside her.

Except the shortcut turns out to be nothing of the sort. Fifteen minutes in, it’s obvious even to me that Nanea has lost her bearings, and the sidewalks around us have gone completely empty.

I ask if we’re lost. Nanea says she thinks she recognizes the street ahead, but then she yanks me down behind a bush at the sight of a man climbing out of a parked car. I ask what’s wrong, and she says she’s pretty sure it’s past curfew. We shouldn’t be outside anymore.

Past curfew. The words alone tighten something in my chest, even though I had already sensed this was the case. I point out that the man is outside. Nanea says he may have a night pass. We watch him wrestle his gas mask before going into his house.

Nanea suddenly gasps. We left our own masks at her home. She pats her chest, and then hurriedly reaches into her pockets. She pulls out a small card and says she almost thought she left her ID at home, too. She usually keeps it in a pouch around her neck. Do I have mine?

“My what?” I ask.

Nanea clarifies. My identification card. She holds hers up so I can see her name, address, even her fingerprints printed. Did I leave mine back at her house?

I can’t bring myself to admit no, so I stay quiet.

Panic edges into her voice. She reminds me we’re supposed to carry these everywhere, along with our gas masks. We really can’t be caught without those things. We’d be in real trouble. Fear flickers across her face, worse than anything I saw during the air-raid drill, and it rattles me. Even Mele seems to notice, licking my leg and whimpering softly.

Nanea forces herself to breathe and focus, insisting she only needs to figure out which street this is. She pulls me toward the corner sign, and relief floods her face the moment she reads it. She knows exactly where we are now, and this route leads straight home.

But progress is slow going as we creep from bush to bush. Mele, thoroughly confused by all the crouching and darting, keeps sprinting ahead before circling back, tail wagging. Nanea tries to tell Mele to be quiet.

Then, at the same instant, we both hear it, heavy boots striking pavement, and we freeze solid. Nanea grabs Mele’s collar and pulls us both behind a parked car, dropping flat to peer beneath it.

When she finally sits back up, fear widens her eyes. Their block warden, Mr. Lopez, is out there with a flashlight. If he catches us, he’ll send us straight to jail.

The footsteps draw nearer, and I hold perfectly still, watching a beam of light sweep past just beneath the car. He must be standing right on the other side of it. I don’t even dare take a breath.

Just when my lungs feel ready to give out, the footsteps finally retreat the other direction. We made it, I think, nearly giddy with relief. We are safe.

Until Mele barks, sharp and sudden.

The footsteps return immediately.

Nanea releases the dog’s collar and grips my arm instead as a flashlight beam catches us both, a gruff voice demanding to know who is there.

Nanea scrambles upright and gives her name, her voice so small I doubt he even hears it.

Mr. Lopez seizes Nanea’s arm fast enough to make her yelp, and I brace myself, wondering if he intends to handcuff her right there. Mele starts barking at him, too, so I crouch down to try to hush her.

Mr. Lopez swings his flashlight toward my face and asks who I am. Nanea introduces me, and explains that I was only helping her return a lost dog. Nanea begs him not to arrest us, insisting we live just down the road and that the fault was entirely hers.

Then, a second voice calls out through the darkness. It’s Mrs. Mitchell. Nanea spins around and buries her face against her mother’s chest the second we can see her silhouette.

Tears spill down my own cheeks without warning. I wish desperately that my own mom would step out of the shadows and pull me in close, too.

Mrs. Mitchell speaks low to Mr. Lopez, too quiet for me to catch the words over my own pounding heartbeat, but whatever she says works. Mr. Lopez lets us go with nothing more than a warning.