“What’s wrong?” I hear Amy’s voice in the background just as the light turns green and the taxi driver hits the pedal.

“It’s Sophie,” Jorge says.

My ears ring with the sound of their voices as Jorge repeats everything I just said to Amy.

“Mateo, where are you?” he asks me.

“I’m on my way to the bodega. I think Sophie might’ve gone there.”

“Okay, I’ll meet you there. I’m on my—”

“No! Stay where you are. Sophie could also show up at the apartment.”

“Amy can stay here,” he says. “I’ll come meet you.”

“Okay,” I whisper. “I’ll see you at the bodega.”

“But are you sure she’s not still in Central Park?”

“I don’t know. Maria and two of my friends are looking for her there, so we have to cover all our bases.”

While the taxi speeds down Fifth Avenue, I start to feel nauseous. Maybe it’s just the movement of the car, but soon enough I’m worrying that I’m gonna throw up.

Before I can do anything—crack open the window, or ask the driver to turn up the AC—Jorge clears his throat.

“Call me if you hear something,” he says.

“I will,” I say, and then, with a heavy heart, I hang up, silently praying that Sophie’s okay, that we’ll find her, that wherever she went, she’ll make her way back to us.

When the taxi finally pulls over, I jump out, run across the sidewalk, and storm into the bodega. The bell overhead rings violently, echoing against the silence.

Erika turns toward me immediately. “Mateo? What are you doing here?”

“Has my sister come by the bodega?”

“N-no. It’s been quiet around here,” she says. “Mateo, what’s wrong?”

“She’s gone missing.” No matter how many times I’ve said it, it still doesn’t feel real. And this time, it only makes the nausea from earlier get worse, as a million images flash through my mind—Sophie lost in the middle of the city, Sophie crying, Sophie watching as the sky gets darker, not knowing where to go, how to find me.

“Oh my God,” Erika says. “How did this happen?”

I’m in the middle of explaining everything to her when the bell at the door rings loudly again and Jorge stumbles into the store.

“Mateo,” he says when he sees me. “Have you heard anything?”

“No,” I say, feeling desperation in the deepest part of my stomach. “Jorge, what do we do? How do we—”

My phone starts ringing in that moment, and I don’t even look at the name on the screen before hitting the answer button.

“Hello?”

“Mijo.” I can’t believe it. It’s him. Him. Pa.