Evann bristled in her mannered way. “Alejandro gave up his private practice and travels to areas ravaged by the Neo Water Wars with Médecins Sans Frontières. He . . . he has a special knowledge of the sort of situations that produced this art. He is an expert.”

Her hand squeezed his. There was so much both of them couldn’t say, would never be able to say in a situation like this. The small boy in raggedy clothes asserted himself in Alejandro’s head once again as he smiled and excused himself.

He stepped out of the gallery and into the bathroom down the short hallway. He locked the door of the single-stall restroom, washed his hands, and looked in the mirror. No one could see the boy but him. No one could see the scars that still ran up and down his arms from self-injury, no one could see the scars from the blast. No one would ever see how much he had loved all of them, all of those people who were no more—Jaden, Makayla, Jesse, José, Sebastian. No one could see how that building had saved him and made him the person he was as much as any luxurious house inland or prep school.

Checking once more to make sure the door was locked, he removed the ancient phone from his pocket. He hardly kept it charged anymore, never used it for anything. It was virtually unusable now, anyway. But on nights like tonight, he plugged it into a power socket just to be sure it would be there if he needed it. Like he needed it now.

He turned on the phone and swiped the geometric shape that was the passkey. He opened the videos and pressed play. He saw a man waving to him in a dark room while he held the phone. It was his father, the man he had called Papi. He remembered him still, even though it had been many years. He was tall and smelled like pipe tobacco and gave wonderful hugs. Alejandro the adult watched as Ale the boy in raggedy clothes held the phone, and his papi rushed around the room, heading for the door. It was the night of Bernice.

Then, the video became blurry, and then it focused outside, out the window. On the video, he could see water coming up the street. He could see his papi struggling with a car door outside the window. Then he was gone. And he never came back. Alejandro the grown man, the respected man, turned the phone off as Ale the boy began to sob. The video was all he had left of his father, of his life before the storm. He put the phone back into his pocket and left the restroom.

He walked back into the sparkling gallery with the bright, joyful people out for their night of culture. He had never pictured himself here, and sometimes it felt odd. But here he was.