Along with our tickets, the man at the counter hands us two cherry-red ponchos, their plastic so thin as to be see-through. I pull mine on and we giggle as I spread my arms wide to demonstrate the corpulence of the thin plastic sheeting, a silly sight rendered hilarious by the mezcal margaritas we downed at lunch.

On the day I contemplated dropping out of Cornell, I stood at the edge of a bridge and pondered all the overdue papers I would never have to complete and the burden of student debt I would be free from if I ceased to exist. I peered at the jagged rocks below, dusted with snow.

“I smelled gas in my kitchen,” Elizabeth yelled. “I’m really scared.” I turned around from my mailbox in the courtyard and realized she was talking to me. My downstairs neighbor Sergei’s door was open. I looked into the shadows of his living room.