“Vee, I want to understand. Because this stuff normally appeals to people whose lives are spiraling downward. And I don’t think that’s you.”

Vee sighed heavily. “I mean, yeah, shoot me for looking for a little meaning in my life. Dad, I didn’t know those men would actually do what they did. I promise you. And anyway, we’re supposed to be going home next week . . .”

She paused. She must have seen the look on my face. “Except we can’t now, can we?”

“Vee,” I said, “was it you who deleted all the browsing histories?”

Vee nodded.

“So you knew at some level that engaging with this stuff was wrong?”

“I guess . . .” Her eyes flicked away. When she looked at me again I could see they were misting with tears. “Dad,” she said, “am I responsible for what happened to Licia?”

“No, Vee, no. You couldn’t have known.”

Eleven

I got up at six, all hope of sleep gone.

I stood for a while in Franklin’s room, listening to the snuffled in-in-and-out of his breathing. The children all breathed in the same pattern, inherited from Elsa. They would pause in the middle of the in-breath, inhale a second time, pause again for the tiniest moment, then exhale fully.

In, in, and out: always most noticeable in sleep. In the early days it had terrified me, the thought that Vee or Licia might simply stop breathing and never begin again. I would keep watch over them for hours, though Elsa always told me there was no need. With the passing of the years I relaxed a little.

These days, my children’s breathing was a detail, like eye color: at least it was for Franklin and for Vee. Licia had not been so lucky. On top of her mother’s breathing, she inherited the asthma that shortened her grandmother’s life. Not a problem, the doctors had said. Entirely controllable. And it was, with her Ventolin inhaler.

Licia was not among the dead. Not yet. But if she was alive, what then? Was she lying alone somewhere, hurt and afraid and gasping for breath?

I felt tears pricking at the backs of my eyes. Tell me at least that she has her inhaler.

I wiped the tears away with the pads of my hands. I opened the door to Vee’s room, thinking to sit awhile on the wooden floor, to watch her as she slept.

Vee’s bed was empty.

I walked into the living room, opened the door onto the balcony at the back.

Vee was not there.

I walked into the bedroom I shared with Elsa.

Elsa must have felt my presence. She sat up in bed. “Everything okay?”

I said, “Did Vee mention anything to you about having plans?”

“No.”

“She went out.”

Elsa swung her feet across the bed. She picked up her phone, squinted for a moment, checking the time, then dialed Vee’s number.