One day, I’ll be like her. Today, I need the help.

Gun pointed at the sky, hopeful I won’t have to shoot it in anyone’s direction, I run through the open gate and into Eden.

The sky seems bluer. The birdsong, more melodic. There are flowers everywhere. Either side of the drive is bordered with blooming bushes surrounding a garden.

I pass an empty golf cart in the middle of the stone drive. There’s no one in sight. No visitors or tourists. No staff. Following the curve of the road, I turn and find a circular drive around a gurgling fountain, in front of a majestic white building with a red tile roof. The name of the resort is painted onto the pristine white stucco, and on the patio that runs the width of the building, stands a woman.

I hold the gun up with both hands, aiming at her while I step closer.

“Who are you?” I call. She’s in her forties maybe, wearing gray trousers and a white shirt. It’s an outfit you can deny is a uniform.

“You don’t have to be afraid.” Her voice is soothing and calm, yet it carries across the distance between us, skirting the splash of the fountain and the chirping of the birds. I hear it as if it’s right at my ear.

“Where’s Dario Lucari?” I’m next to the fountain now. I never appreciated how loud moving water can be. I go closer.

“You’ll see him.” Her hands are still folded in front of her, and her smile is pressed tight—as if she’s trying to control it.

Led by the pistol, I can see her face between the steel borders of the gun site. She has hazel eyes and a high forehead. Her dark hair is cut short, but a few longer strands flutter across her eyebrows. When she brushes them away, her mouth relaxes. She has full lips with a chin that reminds me of Massimo’s, and when she drops her hands, she rubs her palms on her trousers as if they’re damp.

“Where is he?” I shout to crowd out the dawning of an overwhelming fact.

“Come closer.”

I know that voice.

Stopping at the base of the porch, I point the gun at her. She’s two steps above me, head tilted down to meet my gaze.

I may have a gun, but I am disarmed. I’m a child again, looking up at authority.

My hands drop to my sides. Her uncontrolled smile is back, but without the limits of a gun site clouding my vision, I see her whole. It’s Massimo’s chin. My eyes and lips. It’s her voice reading a book about a baby bird, and her kindness teaching me how to be competent in a world where my agency would be limited.