Fiction: Marissa and Arielle explore the wonders of forests, reefs, and beaches on an Andaman island

The branches of the towering American elm on Seventy-Seventh and Central Park West hang low and crooked across the pavement, some resting on the brick wall along the edge of the street. Burnished orange leaves cover the cobblestones that have been pushed upward by the roots making their way beneath.

When I close my eyes, I can see her nestled in the hollow of a tree, legs folded into herself, chin resting on her knees. I can hear frogs barking in the distance and a thick mess of dark green leaves rubbing against one another in the wind.

My favourite trees at home were the dipterocarps, the old-world hardwoods that dominated the forests, with trunks that stretched so high that the tops were barely visible from the ground, leaves that stole all the sunlight, and roots that ran riot along the forest floor. Arielle preferred the plants of the understorey: wild gingers, orchids, rhododendrons. She would forage in the near darkness and take back what she thought was edible to my father. He would show her how to trim the plants, explaining which parts you could use for cooking and which you had to discard. I only understood how much Arielle hated...

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