She remembered: her neighbor who took her in for a few days. A brief moment, a small act, but ingrained in the way childhood becomes a series of images, a detail, a color, a word so that one moment becomes a defining moment and you’re not even sure why. J-something, absentmindedly slicking gloss over her lips, scrunching her hair with fruity mousse each morning. J-something’s house, an exact replica of her mother’s but bare, devoid of any decoration or personality. She remembered how, before she knew anything of what was to come, she’d curled in bed with her and they’d laughed together.

She’d felt so guilty and anxious, even as a child confused about what happened, the thought that police had taken her without a word to this woman, that this woman had probably wondered for the rest of her life what had happened to Ana. The police always did things like that. Enemy. J-something must have been in her room when the officers came. She never came out. Ana thought of trying to find her online, years later, to explain. But Ana had spent only a handful of days with this woman; it seemed silly, an imposition even. And yet, when Ana first thought of returning to the United States, where she had no family, this stranger had inexplicably popped into her mind. Maybe she just wanted to thank her. For softening the blow.

Ana doubted she’d ever see her again, but she was going to make her way to her old neighborhood anyway. At least she’d be in Miami, where the terrain was the tiniest bit more familiar. Where she’d sourced those childhood flashes. Where high schools were used to girls with no parents and no social security numbers.

Ana could hear some of the children crying as the agents loaded them onto the van. She could hear one of the women saying, this is my daughter. One of the men saying, no, there’s no one else. She could hear muffled sounds from the agents’ walkie-talkies and the slamming of van doors. By the time the van’s engine roared and the lights disappeared, she wanted nothing more than to fold into the dirt and sleep. But she couldn’t stop now. How long before there were other vans? Men searching for tracks?

Right now there were no other vans, no other men, just the houses, the stores. An abandoned fishing pole, an abandoned Styrofoam cooler. Almost perverse, these marks of leisurely afternoons, maybe a splash in the river, the flick of a wrist. She wondered how many families looked across the river and thought of girls like her, said to themselves, Thank God that’s not us. If life had taken only the slightest turn, she’d have thought that too.