“Here.” She tutted and handed me the manila folder she’d tucked under arm. “Let us rejoin Josephine.”

Josephine was quiet in the back of the taxi.

I was too. I was raw after my impromptu confessional with Sister Maria. As the car made its way down the winding road, I instructed the driver to take us on a short tour through the old city and to point landmarks out before returning us to the port.

I looked at my traveling companion and was overcome by the urge to touch her—to close the strange gap that seemed to have sprung up between us. I reached out and took Josephine’s hand, warm and soft, and held it gently on the seat between us atop the manila folder Sister Maria had given me.

Josie looked down at our hands, then up at me. She smiled tentatively. “What’s in the folder?” she asked.

“My project with Sister Maria.”

“Can I see?”

I pursed my lips, unwilling to let go of her hand, but then shrugged and did so. “Of course.”

She took the folder and opened it.

“I haven’t looked yet, myself,” I said as we both looked at the front page, which was a list of names and ages.

Josie frowned and turned the page to the first kid. A picture of a young boy with dark hair and eyes, about twelve was stapled to the top corner. “Is this … a report card?” she asked and turned the page to another kid. This time a bit older. Then another and another.

“Yes. They are not orphans exactly, but they have been separated from their parents. Most of them are from North Africa and Syria. They are targeted to be recruited into a life of crime or worse. So Sister Maria and I work with the local governments and the NGOs to locate them and give them a chance for schooling and a future of some kind, and we also try to locate their families through the refugee camp network.” I swallowed, embarrassed suddenly. I didn’t know why. Maybe I just felt exposed. Like I was trying too hard. Or boasting about my charity.

Josephine’s eyes were on mine, fixed and unreadable.

“I like to see their grades. Maybe give them a further opportunity in time. It’s … it’s not an investment in any way,” I went on as if she’d accused me of something. “It’s just something I do. I think it’s important. I was given so much. And I—”

“Stop,” Josie said. Then she looked away and out the window, hiding her face. She closed the folder and set it back between us.