“An authentic one, I assume? Not one bought by someone who subscribes to the Smarmy Hipster catalog?”

She flashes me a real smile this time. “One would assume. Oh, and I have one request. No subway transfers.”

“Hmmmm, okay,” I say. “But it might be a bit of a trek cross-town to get to the right subway.” I eye her shoes.

“Fine by me.” And to prove her point she expertly walks away from me. I’ve watched her walk to the end of the hallway before I remember that I’m supposed to be going with her.

* * *

Zoey is quiet all the way to the subway and down the stairs. Her posture is stiff as we wait on the platform, her gaze focused on a distant point. I almost get the sense that she’s repeating a mantra in her head. I wonder if she has some form of agoraphobia.

“So. Is there anything I should know about your parents before we go in?” It serves the dual purpose of getting information and maybe even distracting her from her anxiety.

She sighs. “Where to even begin,” she mutters.

“How about their names?” I say.

“Liz and Melvin.”

“And how did Liz and Melvin meet?”

“Peace Corps,” she says flatly.

“Ah, do-gooder types.”

“Well, actually, here’s where it gets interesting.” She shifts her bag from one shoulder to the other. “They think they’re do-gooder types. But, honestly, I think their two main interests are traveling and soapboxing about whatever issue du jour they’ve decided to foster at the moment. So now the Peace Corps is a corrupt organization and the real way to heal the world or what have you is to be on the ground . . . at whatever location has the best background for their travel blog and—now—Instagram account. I guarantee you my mother will bring up their follower count within two minutes of us sitting down.”

“I see,” I say, remembering the brief tidbit of conversation I overheard on the phone. “And so where are they based out of now?”

“Last I heard, Central America. Grenada.”

“Perfect for selfless acts and selfies, eh?”

She gives a small laugh, as if surprised that I’ve understood her parents so quickly. “Exactly.”

The train pulls into the station. I notice a group of people getting up to leave it one door down, so I indicate that we can grab their vacated seats.

As soon as the train starts moving, she’s back to staring off into the distance again and taking deep breaths in and out. I decide to keep talking. “So when’s the last time you saw your parents?”

“Oh . . . I don’t know,” she says. “Maybe three years ago now? Actually, I think exactly three years ago. Because it was my twenty-seventh birthday.”

“It’s your birthday?” I look at her again, suddenly understanding the dressing up.