I choke back a sob. She comes down a step and puts her hand on my shoulder. I can’t stand the humanity of her touch without asking her the question at the front of my mind.

“Are you my mother?”

“Sarah…”

“Tell me. Are you my mother?”

She comes down another step, still taller but close enough to meet my eyes at the same level.

“Yes.” She puts her other hand on my shoulder. “I am your mother.”

I wrap my arm around her, letting the one with the gun in it drop to my side. She has my mother’s smell of Ivory soap and crushed flowers. She shushes me the way my mother did, kissing my head and stroking my back.

All I had of her was a silly garter and a few memories… but this was what I needed.

“They told me you were dead.”

“I know.”

“Then I found the severance papers, and they said you were…”

Hollowed. I can’t say it.

“I am sorry you found out that way.”

Was she here the whole time? Did Dario know?

Dario.

“Dario told me he didn’t know where you were.”

“Oh, Sarah, I’m so sorry.”

“He lied to me.”

“I made him promise not to tell you. I couldn’t bear you knowing I turned my back on you.”

“I would have come for you.” I pull away to look at her. “I would have found you. But I came for Dario.”

“Come inside.” She backs up the steps and holds out her hand. “Come on.”

I take her hand and let her lead me into a huge lobby. The floor is laid with white, honeycomb-shaped marble pieces, and the orange chairs and couches are set for small groups to gather. A wall of windows overlooks a crystal clear beach.

Besides us, this beautiful room doesn’t have a soul in it. There are no guests in the seats and no one’s working behind the counter marked “Customer Service.”

This is Rosemarie. How can I help you?

“Are they gone?” I ask. My mother, Mary Ballardo—I can’t believe she’s here—leads me to a couch and sits next to me. “Did they get taken away?”

“The women of the Colonia?”

“Yes.” The gun feels too heavy now. I put it on the table. “And Dario. Where is he?”

She sighs, looks away, then back at me. “I thought I’d know where to start.”

“Just answer the question, Mom!” Calling her Mom is the weirdest and most natural thing I’ve ever done.

“Five days ago, we got a message that we were in danger. We had to leave immediately.”

“Five days?” I try to calculate what was happening in New York five days ago, but that time with my people is a jumble of vivid memories at murky intervals. “But Rosemarie answered the phone two days ago.”