The Williamsburg Bridge shimmered with early traffic. Morning glories shivered on the grate. It was a perfect day for migrants, Ana thought, the wind flailing off the East River, cold and demystifying. A bald man practiced tai chi on a roof three blocks away, one hand knifing the air in front of his face. He was often there in the mornings, and Ana sometimes waved to him across the canyons between buildings, and he’d bow in return. Years ago on Mission Street in San Francisco, she’d taken tai chi classes herself, and she remembered the elegant names: Fair Lady at the Loom, Repulse the Monkey, Grasp the Sparrow’s Tail. Yet the practice was a bit too slow for her liking, and she grew impatient after about two months of classes.

After the first ring, Yvonne picked up the phone.

Years later, Ana wouldn’t remember that moment on the roof. Not the tai chi man in his black robe, or Yvonne on the phone, or the precise words she used: “Amsterdam” and “airplane” and “crash,” all in the same sentence. The bells of the Ukrainian church on Seventh Street were banging. The traffic stood backed up on the bridge, metal and glass glinting in the sun. The tai chi man was still moving on the roof a few blocks away, and he turned to her at that very moment.

What did he see across the narrow canyon of Ninth Street, over the rooftop not one hundred feet away? A woman clutching her stomach, then dropping to her knees? A woman lying, as if sunbathing? The same woman with the auburn hair he often saw there in the mornings, mug in hand, sometimes with her husband. Sometimes without?

The tai chi man swung his arm in the air. He remembered to breathe, to relax his chest. It was all about throwing every bone and muscle wide open, with no hindrance, letting the chi sink lower, especially in this movement, with his elbows wide apart, palms facing each other up and down. Had Ana been watching, had she been aware—or even conscious—she might have recalled the name of the position from the class so many years ago in San Francisco: Wave Hands in Clouds.

Four

All night lights flashed on the Peninsular Road, the strobes of fire trucks and ambulances. The search and rescue had begun. The phones started ringing before first light. Neighbors, the Red Cross. The Royal Canadian Mounted Police. Could they put people up at the inn? Of course, Kevin said. If need be, could the searchers pitch tents on the lawn? Yes, he affirmed, Why not?