They rode back to Eugene. Cate’s visa was running out. Lucy didn’t need one. They went to a tattoo parlor downtown, where Cate sat while Lucy held her hand, as an unsmiling man leaned over her arm and drew a filigree spider in a silver web. She flew home, determined to fly back again as soon as she could. She went down to the internet café every day to check her email, but there was never a word. Those first weeks, as the tattoo scabbed and healed, she would press her fingernail into it when missing Lucy grew too much, would lift the scab to feel that pain again.

She went back to her job in the café, signed on, trying to save for another flight, waiting for word, but no word came. Spring came and went, and brought nothing from Lucy. Then in the early summer, an email—a few words.

Some of us in the camp have been arrested. They say we’re terrorists. I won’t use this account anymore.

Spin always.

Weave always.

Love always.

L. X

And then nothing. Severance. Free fall.

Years. Years in which Cate thought she saw her constantly, on the beach in Brighton, or cycling through the city, her long hair down her back. Years in which Cate stayed working at the café, still watching the door, waiting for Lucy to walk back in.

It was Hannah who finally walked through the door. Hannah who came down to Brighton one day, who stood in her smart work clothes and looked around the café—at the cakes on their cake stands and the menu chalked up onto the board, the pita and hummus and the bean burgers and soy lattes, and said, You have a first-class degree from Oxford University. What the hell are you still doing working here?

It was Hannah who told her about the room in the house Lissa had found in London Fields. Cheap rent. On the park. A chance to start again. And because she knew she was rotting behind that counter, corroded with waiting, Cate took it.

She stares back at the pictures on her computer screen, feels the old twist of loss.

She could have searched harder. Could have gone back to the States, could have found her. Could have claimed her, claimed that part of herself.

And then a thought comes to her—Hesther. Perhaps there are pictures of Lucy in Hesther’s feed—perhaps they have stayed in touch. She searches for Hesther, finds her profile, the pictures of her family, her Georgian house in Bristol, her high ceilings and her lovely kitchen. Clicks back and back and back. There are a few photographs from the Brighton days but none of Lucy.

She clicks on Hesther’s name.

Hey Hesther, long time. Hope all is well.

Just thinking about some old friends today. Wondered if you had Lucy Skein’s contact details.

Much love.

Cate.

She presses send.

Fuck.