The guagua (bus) was several hours late to ferry us to Viñales. Pero, es Cuba (But, it is Cuba...), our indomitable leader— and soon-to-be lovingly nicknamed “Doña”—Cherie, reminded us, throwing her hands in the air. Before long, we would be more than accustomed to lines as national sport, Cuban GPS (i.e. calling out the window for directions), and waiting for our charming 80s-style bus, embellished with red, round sun and wave print on its side. For the moment, we ten cubanoamericanos exchanged our dollars for CUCs and gathered outside the José Martí International Airport learning each other’s histories, staring into the blue sky and car after old-fashioned car, exhaust seeping into our pores.  After a lifetime’s worth of stories and black and white photos from every corner of the island, we had arrived. Suddenly, Cherie approached me. “Your mom called three times, but she said it’s not an emergency.” My father had been in the ICU for the past three weeks, so my heart lurched, regardless. She handed me her phone as the whir of incoming tourists circulated around me. I pressed the screen to my ear and struggled to hear the doctor relay the news via speaker. The bone marrow biopsy...