“My father died a long time ago,” I say. “Someone he used to know showed up on my radar recently, and I had some questions. I thought I’d go to Detroit to learn more about my dad’s life.” And his death. But that’s another story entirely. “I wasn’t planning to stay more than a couple days, but the trip took a little longer than I expected.”

I hear a door open and feel a blast of icy air on my nape. I look over my shoulder to see who’s behind me. Whether or not anyone new has come into the station. It’s an unconscious gesture, but a telling one.

One that they’ve noticed.

They exchange glances. “Looking for someone?” says the woman.

“No.” My attention moves from the man in the blue toque who’s just walked in, the man who was sitting near the middle of the bus we were both on, and snags on the agent’s latex gloves. I begin to imagine where those gloved hands might be going shortly. Which cavity they might start with first. I’m sweating now, despite the chill in the air.

The supervisor steps forward and speaks for the first time. His voice is deep and smooth, like the singer of a forgettable jazz band. He looks over my passport. “Nora Watts,” he says, drawing out the syllables. Is he trying to be sexy? If he is, it isn’t working. “Did you find what you needed in Detroit, Ms. Watts?”

“I found that my father is as dead as he’s ever been. Life moves on, and so should I.”

“What’s wrong with your voice?” The supervisor notices for the first time how rough it is. How it sounds like it’s been scraped up from my diaphragm and shoved through my throat.

“Laryngitis.”

“You say you live in Vancouver but you’re going to Toronto. Why there instead of back home?” The supervisor takes over the questioning now, which is a plus. He seems more reasonable to me right about now, given the choice between him and the woman with the gloves. And I’m starting to enjoy the jazz voice.

“My daughter,” I say. “I’m going to see my daughter.”

The real question here is: Will my daughter want to see me?

They step aside to decide my fate. I try to look more like a fine and upstanding citizen, though my wardrobe and shabby appearance are telling a different story. That maybe I’m not so fine, definitely not upstanding, and it’s possible I don’t even have laryngitis.

I look like a woman on the run from her enemies.

A fair assessment, because that’s exactly what I am.