From high in the sky, above the pathways of parrots, above cloud lines, above the blue—where the moon and the sun take turns shining over rivers and valleys, oceans and forests, towns and cities and farmland—from here you can see things.

To the south, a thick white wind chases its tail. Rain crashes down like an endless bucket of marbles tipped on its side. Fish dive deep to escape the deafening sound, stray dogs slink to the edges of buildings and press their bodies against the walls, people fill plastic bottles with water, push furniture against doors, grab the hands of their children and pull them up flights of stairs.

It is a hurricane.

—

From high in the sky, you can see the spiral of ocean water, moist air, and wind—and a boy in the middle of it all.

But that’s not all you can see.

If you turn your head, if you look north, you can see another spiral. A spiral of sharp, cold air; a mountain; and another boy. Listen to the beating of his heart. Pounding, pelting, whooshing like rain and wind. Inside the boy, rain falls like an endless bucket of marbles tipped on its side, and wind blows hard.

It is another kind of hurricane.