Her stop was a mall parking lot, in the shadow of department stores and luxury jewelers. The bus snaked down Kendall Drive in the dark, and she recognized little. Every strip mall was different, full of businesses she didn’t remember. There were no more open spaces, big green lots. Every space filled by a new rental complex or a new strip mall or a new chain restaurant.

What would she even say? If she knocked on the door and the neighbor answered? If a stranger did?

She’d thought she’d be able to remember the path to her old home but was glad she carried an address with her. Nothing struck her as familiar—the whole complex was smaller than she remembered, grubbier than she remembered. She had expected a feeling—of home, a place in the world?—but it didn’t come. All she felt was tired.

She made her way to what would have been her neighbor’s door, walking past streetlights and feral cats, people walking dogs. It was April, but one patio was still strewn with Christmas lights. Little barbecues. Bougainvillea, birds-of-paradise. Many windows had the X-marks of masking tape. She remembered her mother doing this to prevent flying glass if a hurricane blew the windows. She knew hurricanes wouldn’t arrive for months.

An older woman answered the door. She had bleached-blond hair pulled back into a severe bun. A hollowed look, dark rings under her eyes.

“I’m so sorry to bother,” Ana said, hearing the accent she’d acquired after so many years in Mexico. “I’m looking for someone who used to live here. Years ago. It’s possible she doesn’t live here anymore?”

The woman towered over her. She looked down and then beyond Ana, as if distracted. “Are you looking for Jeanette?” she said in a small voice that didn’t fit her.

Ana was taken aback. She’d already settled for disappointment. She’d already wondered what bus bench she’d sleep on, where she’d find a job when she didn’t find this J-person. It’d been an impractical plan, she could admit it to herself.

“Yes,” she said, hearing the anticipation and hope in her own voice. “Does she still live here?”

The woman didn’t meet her eyes. She brought a hand to her collar. Beyond her, Ana could see the town house was near empty, just a few pieces of furniture. “Who did you say you were?”

It was a simple enough question, but Ana fumbled to answer. She said something about a night at her neighbor’s house and a missing mother. She said something about years in Mexico and a grandmother in El Salvador.