I was in the middle of a dream, napping, when the rattling  upstairs finally worked its way into my consciousness and startled me awake this evening. The man who lives in 203 is elderly, doesn't like noise. I know because he once rapped on our door at 10 pm and asked us to please stop sawing on the pantry door that didn't fit its frame. Could he please, please sleep in peace?, he asked, standing sadly in the hallway in his robe. It couldn't be him.

The bed seemed to be moving, but maybe it was me. I laid back down, flattened myself on the mattress, wondering if the strange mareo would pass. I didn't feel sick. Why was everything moving? Voices in the hall, feet pounding on the stairs. I can't decide if I'm still asleep or in that strange liminal space between dreams and waking that's so hard to explain. What shakes me into wakefulness is one word that slips beneath the door: "terremoto."

Cono! I untangle myself from the sheets and waste time thinking about what shoes I should wear. Flip flops, I decide, would be stupid. I try to call Francisco in New York, but the cell isn't working. I catch him on a video call over Skype as I waste more time trying to decide what I need to take with me: find my passport! My visa renewal form, proof that my document is being held by Immigration! My wallet! Cojone, where's my fucking wallet? Francisco is asleep, too, and mumbles "Ok," when I say, "Listen! Earthquake! Call you later!" The basics in my bag, I grab my keys, lock the door, and run down the stairs. Pauly has deserted his guard post, but I see "7:05 PM: TIEMBLO" written on a sheet of paper that serves as the activity log of his 24 hour shift. No one is around. What am I supposed to do in an earthquake? I realize that I never looked that up.

A couple is hanging out on the sidewalk. Taxi drivers are still looking for fares. I start walking like I know what I'm doing, like the world might not open up and swallow us all into it. I walk for a mile, up to the Monumento de la Revolucion. Dads are playing with their kids. Punk kids are on their skateboards. or hanging out, smoking cigarettes. I think, perversely, about how much rubble that monument--entirely of stone--would create, and I start walking faster, going nowhere, really.

People who are from here don't worry about earthquakes. Just like people who are from California aren't consumed with fear of fires and mudslides. And New Yorkers aren't locked in permanent anxiety about terrorism. But all around the world, people are living in danger zones. I guess we've just each gotta take our pick.