Marvin’s friends left the island years before, and whatever part of his family hadn’t left had passed away. He was alone. Over the years, he’d get letters with photos of them standing in Miami Beach with their bare feet burrowed into the white sand and towels wrapped around their necks, holding plates heaped with piles of moros, pork, and plantains, raising Heinekens to the camera. Always the same caption, “Faltas Tu.”

Marvin had always been afraid of the ocean, odd for someone born on an island, surrounded by water. Which is why he’d refused to leave on a makeshift raft like his friends. Still, he wished he could rid himself of that fear, and he dreamed of leaving one day. It was all he thought about. He’d tried the normal channels but had been denied, over and over, a visa to travel abroad, the reasons for the denial baseless and obscure.

More years passed and Marvin was overcome by sadness upon realizing that this was what was left of his life, that he’d have to come to terms with the truth: that he’d probably never get to see all he wanted to see in this world. He’d never feel the dry heat of the Sahara or the humid mist of Niagara Falls or stand beneath the Eiffel Tower or lean over the edge of the Grand Canyon. That he’d never drink a Heineken with his friends on Miami Beach.

So, he resorted to imagining it all. His dreams became vivid. They began to invade his every thought. He’d forget to stop for his cafecito in the morning, something he desperately needed. He’d have trouble concentrating at work. It got so that after work, he’d hurry home without stopping, running up to his apartment just to sit in his rocking chair by the window, look out over the neighborhood, and let his imagination fly over vast oceans to reach all those magical places. Consumed by an unimpeded sense of freedom that he hadn’t known before, he began to miss meals. Some days he skipped work. He was warned that he might be fired.            

One morning, Marvin woke with curious bumps on the outside of his ankles. He bent down over the edge of his bed and rubbed. Had he twisted them? He’d slept through his alarm and was late to work again. But he felt no remorse because of the places he’d visited in his dreams. Checking his ankles again, the swelling seemed more prominent. It could be bad circulation. It reminded him that permanence was not a given, that with sixty years of mileage he had more of a past than a future, and parts of him would not work as well. On the way home, a strange feeling came over him, compelling him to walk past his house, without any idea of where he might be going. He’d have expected a certain anxiety to well up as he passed below his own window, but he walked with what felt like an involuntary sense of purpose.   

Marvin strolled along the uneven streets occasionally stopping to lift his foot to the curb and feel the bumps on his ankles. They were growing. His shoes felt tighter but there was no pain. He ventured into La Libreria del Barrio, where he tried to distract himself by counting the number of books with Fidel or Che’s image on the cover. It felt as if his shoes would rip apart. Cuco, who minded the store, sat in a low chair behind the counter, thumbing through outdated Carteles magazines. Cuco had nodded when Marvin entered the store and he’d said, I’ve been expecting you.

Marvin thought it odd, since he didn’t really know Cuco. He scoured the shelves until he found a vintage National Geographic under a pile of old Bohemia magazines. Cuco mumbled, I see you found what you came for. Marvin shrugged and opened it to a random page. A story about Iguazu Falls in South America, on the border between Argentina and Brazil. He spread the magazine open and unfolded the photo pages before him. He’d never seen or imagined anything like it. Thick, impenetrable forests, endless green, with orchids growing next to pines, bamboo next to palms, and mosses beside lianas and begonias edging up to hundreds of long waterfalls. He closed his eyes and trembled as he listened to the water thundering over rocky cliffs as if rushing off the edge of the world. And he felt the cold mist rise to coat his cheeks.

He felt a sharp pain in both his feet and looked down. The bumps were bulging over the side of his shoes. The more he thought about the falls the more the skin of his ankles pushed out. He sat down and unlaced his shoes. Cuco was leaning over the counter now, wire-rimmed glasses lifted and resting over his forehead, eyeing him.                  

Marvin lowered his socks and saw small protrusions sprouting from the side of his ankles. It’s your time Marvin, Cuco said, it’s your time, don't be afraid. Marvin hurried through the store, tripping over a stack of books near the front, falling to the ground. He sat up in a manner unlike him, hasty. Without a thought, he yanked his shoes and socks off. He rushed out of the store barefoot.

As he began to run home, he feared people would see the deformities growing out of him more and more as he ran. But Marvin felt faster and lighter, as if every step propelled him farther and higher than the one before.

People stopped along the sidewalk and pointed at him. There were wings growing out of his ankles. He thought about how up to then, his life had gone largely unnoticed, but now everything felt different. He felt freer, and he waved back at them. And then, in one moment, he stepped and did not feel the street beneath him. When he looked at his front foot, he saw that they had grown large, like pelican wings with long, emboldened feathers fluttering in the wind. Each step took him farther and higher. He saw he was over the top of all the roofs in the neighborhood. He could fly.

Marvin flew by his apartment and saw himself rocking in the chair by the window. His winged self waved at him as he flew past, and he could see himself smiling. He turned to see the edge of the sea and flew towards it. Soon he was over the water sensing the cool salty mist caress him as it rose above the crashing waves beneath him. And the empty chair, rocked to a stop.

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