![]() Sounds like we’re both in the middle of hard lessons. I have to admit I’ve wanted to, though, every single day, more than once. I haven’t binged in two weeks now, which feels great, I wrote to Dad. ![]() When I’d finished all of his emails, I realized Modesta had slipped away. I wondered how hard it had been for him to type the word bulimia. I want to do it, but I hate admitting it’s not going to be easy. The work I need to do (on myself) is hard and humbling. I’m doing well and learning a lot about myself. The next one, and the next, all of them, ended with I miss you so much. What a great adventure you’re going to have. I scrolled through the dates and opened his first one: I hope you have arrived safely, Hannah Banana. “He has already written you, this boy?” Modesta asked, looking at my face. A quick scan showed me he’d emailed me every day. When I accessed my account, I blinked, stunned. Satellites were easier to install than phone lines through the rain forest. The Internet connection was fast-wireless. “This is where I study medicine,” she said, “so I can go to university.” They didn’t have plumbing, but they had the Internet? ![]() I listened to the musical chord of it coming to life with disbelief. She directed me to the rickety chair at the desk, lifted the Tupperware, and turned the computer on. ![]() She took me into the school building, which was wide open-no locks because there were no doors-to one sole computer under a giant Tupperware tub on a metal desk. Modesta led me by the hand, as if I were one of the small orphans. ![]()
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