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yelling in Spanish, and I cannot see his face in the dark. He leans down and grabs my wrist.
    I wonder why I assumed it was safe to wander an unfamiliar island by myself.
    I wonder if I escaped a pandemic at home only to get attacked here.
    I start fighting. When I land a good punch in his ribs, he grunts, and holds me tighter.
    “Don’t hurt me,” I cry out. “Please.”
    He twists my wrist, and for the first time I feel the burn in my fingertips where they brushed against the skin of the apple. They are blistered and red.
    “Too late,” he says in perfect English. “You already did that yourself.”

Two
    I scramble to my feet, cradling my hand. My fingertips throb.
    “They’re poisonous to the touch,” the man says. “The apples.”
    “I didn’t know.”
    “You should have,” he mutters. “There are signs everywhere.”
    Poison apples, like a fairy tale. Except my prince is stuck in a hospital in New York City and the evil witch is a six-foot-tall galapagueño with anger management issues. I look at the tortoises, still blissfully feasting, and he follows my gaze. “You’re not a tortoise,” he says, as if he knows exactly what I’m thinking.
    By now my skin feels like it’s on fire. “How poisonous?” I ask, starting to panic. Do I need to go to the hospital?
    Is there even a hospital?
    He takes my hand and peers down at my fingers. He has dark hair and darker eyes and he is wearing running shorts and a sweaty tank. “It’ll go away, the burn, the blisters. Soak in cold water if you have to.” Then his eyes narrow on my breasts. I yank my hand away and fold my arms over my chest. “Where did you get that?”
    “Get what?”
    “That shirt.”
    “I borrowed it,” I say. “My luggage got lost.”
    His scowl carves deeper lines in his face. “You’re on vacation,” he mutters. “Of course you are.”
    He says this like it is a great personal affront to him that I, an outsider, am on Isabela. For a country whose main source of revenue is tourism, this doesn’t exactly feel like a warm welcome.
    “I hate to break this to you, but everything on the island is closed for two weeks, including this place.”
    “ You’re here,” I point out.
    “I live here, and I’m on my way home. Like you should be. Or haven’t you heard there’s a pandemic?”
    At that, I bristle. “Actually, yes, I have heard. My boyfriend is on the front lines treating it.”
    “So you decided to bring the virus here.”
    As if I am Typhoid Mary. As if I am intentionally trying to hurt people, instead of attempting to stay safe.
    “Maldita turista,” he mutters. “Who cares what happens, as long as you get your vacation.”
    My eyes widen. He might have kept me from eating something poisonous, but he’s still a complete asshole. “As a matter of fact, I don’t have Covid. But you know, just to make sure, we can socially distance right now by putting the entire island between us.”
    I pivot and march away from him. My blistered hand, dangling at my side, has its own heartbeat. I refuse to turn around to see if he’s watching me leave, or if he’s continued toward his home. I don’t stop moving until I reach the entrance of the center. Just beside the sign I saw when I first arrived is another sign, this one with a picture of an apple and a red X covering it. CUIDADO! LOS MANZANILLOS SON NATIVOS DE LAS GALÁPAGOS. SOLAMENTE LAS TORTUGAS GIGANTES SON CAPACES DE DIGERIR ESTAS MANZANITAS VENENOSAS . And then in perfectly clear English: CAREFUL! MANCHINEEL TREES ARE NATIVE TO GALÁPAGOS. ONLY GIANT TORTOISES CAN DIGEST THESE POISONOUS LITTLE APPLES.
    I hear a muffled snort and look up to see him standing ten feet away from me, arms crossed. Then he heads off deeper into the island, until the dark swallows him whole.
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    —
    By the time I return to the apartment, it’s night. Unlike in the city, where there’s always a glow from a billboard or a storefront, here the dark is comprehensive. I navigate by the