He said he’d be home at lunch with the news. At 11:52, I place two plates of turkey sandwiches and cut up watermelon on bamboo placemats, carefully pour out the green lemonade of sugarcane juice into two glasses.

I am sitting at the kitchen table, cigarette filling the kitchen with smoke. I know he will have something to say about that, but it’s raining outside. If I prayed, I would do it now. Would get down on my knees, clasp my hands, and channel all my energy on those I love: our neighbor’s soft brown-eyed cow who grazes the grassy square each morning, my favorite tuk tuk driver Deng who says “Good morning!” to me in loud English and teaches me new Lao words, the hammock tied between two poles I sneak out to at dusk to see the stars come out, a whole new sky on this side of the world.

The front door slams open, and the roar of monsoon rains fills the quiet space. I hear his umbrella snap shut, hear it fall in the stand in the corner with a clang. My heart is in my throat, my fingers shaking just a bit. I squeeze them tighter around the lit stub in my hand.

He walks through the doorway to the kitchen like he expects to find me here.

A pause. And in that pause is my answer. I stub out my cigarette in the ashtray.

“Cuba.”

I nod, keep nodding like a bobblehead as I stand up to kiss his cheek. He grabs my hand and I gently pull away, walk back to our room, palm pressing against the wall, dragging it behind me.

“Mia…” he calls down the hall but doesn’t follow.

I open my closet and begin to pick off clothes from their hangers, throwing them on our bedspread. A cream-colored tank I haggled down to twenty thousand kip at the Night Market, a night blue sinh with gold-stitched stars hand-made for my wide American hips by our neighborhood tailor, a thick sweater I have never needed in the year-round heat. I begin to fold them, placing soft pleats in the fabric, though we still have a month to pack, to say our goodbyes, to get paperwork in order, to have a phone call with the Foreign Service Officer whose post Liam is taking over, to give tips to the family who will live in our home. I wipe my face with the back of my hand.

I can’t call my mother. She would complain about paying for a long-distance call when I could have sent a letter. Say, “Oh, my poor baby, I know how hard it is for you, moving to all these beautiful places, the government perks. I pity you, truly I do.” Sipping Kendall Jackson and laughing on the other end of the line, sitting at the counter where she used to make me grilled cheese sandwiches, still sleeping in the bed I remember climbing into in the middle of the night. Aubrey and Ava have known five different homes already, in four different countries. Of all of them, this is their favorite. Luang Prabang; with its sweet-smelling plumerias, clacking geckos in the night, saffron-robed monks collecting offerings in metal bowls, purple sunsets behind the mountains.

If I ring Dad, he’ll take the long view. “You can handle change, you’re adaptable. You’ll probably love Cuba.” Then in a softer voice, “This is what you signed up for, button” that’s sure to make me cry. I drop the sweater to the bedspread and walk out of the air-conditioned bedroom, into the muggy hallway and out to the back patio.

It’s still raining in full heavy sheets, a deafening thunder that’s flooding the back road. Droplets hit the patio so hard they bounce back like hail. It’s warm and muggy, and the mosquitos move from the tiny pools on the tiles to my neck and shoulders. I stick one hand out beyond the roof and watch as I add a silvery second skin. I flip my palm; too much rain to even hold for a moment. The fat drops are cool and numbing. I reach out to my elbow, now shoulder, the crease of my neck. A river runs down my spine. I step out and stand fully-clothed, arms outstretched under the monsoon showers. I bow my head to protect my face from the sharp needles, my soaked hair falling like a curtain.

The slider door creaks open and closes with a snap. A metal chair grates on the patio floor, a slow grunt as a body settles in. A glass bottle is placed carefully on the glass tabletop.

I turn to face him, craving a sip of his beer.

“You know, we could be back one day,” he says.

I nod, glad for the rain on my cheeks, my thighs, my feet.

“I know,” he says, looking down, “it’s not the same.” He takes a swig of Beer Lao. Puts it back slowly on the table. He starts to pick at the soggy label, starting with the swirling Lao font at the top.

“How does it feel?”

“What?” The rain is all over my body, it fills my ears.

“How does it feel?”

“Like heaven.”

“I heard…Ben said Havana is beautiful, he…”

“Not now.”

Another swig of beer. Now he’s working from the bottom, picking at the Lao Brewery Company, Ltd.

“I guess we should tell the girls tonight.”

“I guess.”

He nods once, picking the oval’s sides now, pressed paper peeling off glass like sunburnt skin. He doubles back to where the label sticks, digging his long, rounded fingernails underneath, lifting gently, cajoling it away from the glue.

My feet are gently sinking into the dirt turned mud. Pools of water caress my toes; I press my heels deeper. Lift the bottom of my foot slowly, feeling it suction before releasing back into the air. I do it again with the other foot, relishing how the earth clings to my body, a desperate pull, before letting go.

Liam’s almost got it now, back arched like a cat, he’s going for the center, careful not to rip the label apart as he digs and lifts in a final silent tug. His thumb rubs the naked bottle up and down, removing any trace of sticky residue. He places the whole label flat on the table. Then slowly as if in devotional prayer, he leans his head forward, falling, until his forehead rests on the table. He stays there, inhaling, exhaling. I match my breath to his, following the rise and fall of his back. He looks up at me, tiptoeing in the mud like a dancer.

“I’ll grab you a towel,” he says, pressing hands to knees to lift himself up. He heads back inside, closing the door.

I come in out of the rain, sitting in the chair he left. I wring out my hair like a sponge, feeling my clothes heavy on my bones like a weighted blanket. I pick up the label and cradle it in my palms. The tiger head in its red circle, staring off the left towards some unknown vista. I grab the bottle and tilt it back, coaxing any last drops of light beer down my throat, watching as the rains wash away any last trace of me.