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Montgomery, on the other hand, did not lack any resources. He was a destructive forcejust for kicks.
That bothered me.
In my years as a SEAL operative, I'd seen faces wearing the same dark veil of masked intentions. It was like staring into the heart of a hurricane.
These were men who worshiped one God, and that wasSuffering.
They were ingrained to find the very places and people who were vulnerable and rip them to shreds, reducing them to shrapnel and dust.
Their reasoning was usually simple. It was a kind of revolution for them. In these dark deeds, too, they sought the one thing we usually always do.Purpose.
My hometown lived as a contradiction to itself. Its narrow, winding streets co-existed amid the bleak realities of life.
Buildings were little more than shacks—most of us used what we could find to get them standing. Scraps of wood, cardboard, metal—everything was valuable.
The sun beat down mercilessly on the dirt roads, perpetuating them into rivers of dust capable of choking anyone who wasn't used to living there.
The lingering stench of human waste and rotting garbage were permanent fixtures in the air.
It mixed with the salty tang of the sea. Stray dogs roamed the streets, their ribs visible under their matted fur. If anything, I hoped to return and make a shelter for them one day.
Even the trees were scraggly and stunted.
Like my extended family and everyone else in my hometown, I grew up surrounded by abject poverty. It was a force of nature that could not be defeated.
It was in the cracked pavement, in the rusted metal roofs, in the peeling paint on the walls. It was in the eyes of the people who lived there.
We ran around barefoot, our skin caked in dirt, bellies distended from hunger.
I had buried a lot of my past with the earthquake that had killed her and ravaged our home. 2010 was the year I rose from the dust, quite literally. But even today, all these years later, I could never forget the little pleasures we enjoyed even with our tummies so empty we'd forgotten the very sensation of eating a full meal.
I'd chase Gloria, my youngest sister, around. She had a laugh like church bells and the smile of a half-moon. I made her toys from whatever I could find, old cans, discarded fabric scraps, or sticks.
It wasn't much, but for us kids back then, a doll fashioned from scraps was better than any Barbie.
On rare days, Mom would bring us little treats from local vendors.
I remembered the cakes most of all—dense, intensely sweet mouthfuls of gingerbread flavored with fresh ginger, dark sugarcane syrup, cinnamon, and nutmeg. I'd always take a bite and leave the rest for her.
I could go without food for an age to keep you from hunger, Glo.La luz de mi vida. Keeper of my secrets, shelter to my storms.
Even at seven, she'd been so much more than a sister to me. She was everything love meant.
The taste of coconut cream bursting from its interiors was still on the tip of my tongue, a subtle, sweet flavor profile that felt like a knife in my chest and a bullet in my gut.
My hometown could break spirits, but it could also forge your character. For me, it did both.
It broke me hardest when I was fourteen years old. I remembered the ground shaking like it was yesterday.
Mom shouted at us to run outdoors, but the walls crumbled down on our family before we could. In the chaos that followed, I heard nothing but the sparse rhythm of my own heart trapped under rubble.
For three days, I was buried alive without food and water and zero hope of rescue. I called for my sister at times.
Gloria. Gloria. Gloria. Find me, or wait until I find you.
I needed to get to her. Needed to survive so I could save her. I succeeded on the third day when rescue operations intensified.
Succeeded in finding her, at least. The saving part didn't work out.
