I nodded and stood up.

He held my upper arm and guided me out.

We could still hear the music, but near us the only sound was that of our feet crunching leaves.

Was he waiting for me to speak? I had to say something—but what?

A grove of dark green pines was before us.

¿Cambian de color?” I thought I could ask but how would it sound?

I practiced it in my head. Do dose trees … those, Cristina, like the z in Spanish.

“Do those trees change color?” I pointed with my chin at the pines.

“No, they’re evergreens.”

“Like palm trees,” I said.

“Do you miss Puerto Rico?” he asked.

“A little,” I caught myself saying.

It was then I realized I wasn’t cold. And I wasn’t wearing a coat.