The sobs are so profoundly physical, my mind removes itself from the body crunched on the bed. I’m an observer to this obscene show of weakness. I’m pathetic. Why? Am I crying for his danger or my future loss? For the family we’re about to make, but may never have? For the competence I have and can’t use?

None of it. All of it. The misery has no name or single purpose. It’s been building since Dario was taken, and now it’s too big to be contained inside me. It wants out. Even sadness wants to be free.

The sun rises. I bathe and dress in the company of aching eyes and a few leftover sniffles. I stare at the phone, waiting for him to be alive or dead.

When the double-beep for the front gate chimes, I assume it’s the woman who’s going to make my documents, so I open the gate, clear my throat, smooth my dress, and stand up straight.

“I can do this.”

In the mirror by the front door, I catch a glimpse of myself, red-eyed, gaunt, damp hair sticking to my collarbones. Standing sideways, I look for a bulge and fail to see what Dario saw. Maybe this was all a big mistake. I’m going to get a pregnancy test today. If he was wrong, I’m going to take those documents hot off the press and go down to St. Eustatius myself.

The black Suburban is pulling up when I come out to the front to greet the nameless woman and help with the suitcases. But when the door opens, a man gets out.

I back up. I didn’t bring a gun. I should have brought a gun.

A woman gets out of the passenger side. I recognize her but can’t place her. That’s bad. I’m not supposed to know the forger.

“Sarah!” She’s smiling.

If I say go, we go. Just say the word.

“Sarah Colonia.” I know the man’s accent.

I heard, but I didn’t believe.

I can’t stop staring at the woman.

Say a word.

“Violetta?” I say in disbelief. “From Armistice Night?”

“That’s me!” She embraces me.

I feel a hardness against my belly. I step back, holding her at arm’s length. “You’re pregnant.”

Five months, maybe. She must have been the last time I saw her—when she was ready to take on a yacht full of armed men to rescue me.

“Yup. I’m making a little DiLustro right here.”

“Congratulations!”

“Are the women finished?” Santino says with his arms crossed. “We have business, and you want to talk about babies.”

“Don’t mind him.” Violetta gives him an affectionate look. “He stopped smoking and he’s a little—”

“Where’s Lucari?” Santino interrupts.

Suddenly, I want to cry all over again.

“That was last night,” I say.