I pop a few slices of breadfruit cake in the oven and call Ma Nee to the kitchen. Get de coffee from de place…”—Mama joins Ma Nee and they finish the sentence together— “…where they did not grow bananas.” Ma Nee laughs and it turns on a light in Mama’s eyes. She hands the flask of rum to Ma Nee, who takes a swig and pours the rest in the hole. Mama, Papa, and I have joined the neighbors to bar windows and put tape on any exposed glass. This is how the ugliest of trades started on our beautiful island and in the Americas.