Her fingers touch the largest apple. It is cold. It is warm. It is her mother’s perfume. It is the day she lost her keys. It is every door she never opened.

She does not faint tonight.

Nieves sits in her rocking chair. The room is dark. Forty-seven apples line the sill. They are beginning to hum—a low, green sound, like a refrigerator full of secrets.

She stares at the window. An apple tree is visible three blocks away. She swears it just moved closer.

A young Nieves, braids down to her waist. She is walking through her grandfather’s orchard. He is dead now, but in the memory, he is very much alive, whispering a warning in a language she has since forgotten.

Tonight, she reaches out.