The woman’s eyes darted back to her. “I know you!” she gasped. The woman fumbled excitedly, or tensely, Ana couldn’t tell. She didn’t wait for Ana to say anything else, just led her into the house and began to brush crumbs off a kitchen table and rifle through cabinets to set a plate of food with a nervous energy that put Ana on edge.

But Ana was relieved to sit in the air-conditioning, to eat Cuban croquetas. She hadn’t seen those in years.

The woman sat across from her, stared. Ana couldn’t remember what this house had looked like so many years ago, but she was sure the table was the same. The woman picked at her nails and stared out the window at the empty unkempt lawn, at the cars parked in their designated lots.

“You said you knew me?” Ana was so hungry and couldn’t take a bite.

The woman asked Ana why she was there, grew wide-eyed when Ana told her the story of where she’d been just days before. Ana hesitated when she said she wasn’t sure where she would spend the night, but the woman interrupted right away.

“You can spend the night here,” she said. “You can stay as long as you need to.”

Ana thanked her profusely, this woman she did not even know, but she was suspicious at the way she darted questions, at times couldn’t sit still and at others would quiet suddenly, seemed to disappear into her own mind, couldn’t even tell her how she knew her.

As the woman took the empty plate before Ana to the sink and rinsed the crumbs, she finally introduced herself as Carmen. “I am Jeanette’s mother,” she said, back to Ana. “I’m sorry to tell you this, Ana, but Jeanette died.” Carmen shut off the faucet and turned to face her. A cat Ana hadn’t noticed hopped off the windowsill and extended into a stretch.

Ana swallowed. “Died?” The cat darted off.

Carmen had tears in her eyes. Her bottom lip trembled.

Ana looked down at the table. She hadn’t known Jeanette, not at all, but for so many months, she’d harbored this silly fantasy of a distant friend in her childhood world. She searched for words. “I’m so—”

“Overdose,” Carmen said, and shut off the water. She gripped the edge of the counter and bent her head.

Ana tried to conjure an image of Jeanette, tried to form a story about her life in all the years she hadn’t seen her. She realized addiction wouldn’t have figured into her story. “I’m—” She wanted so badly to sleep, to will away the last few months, to have her mother again. “I’m so sorry,” she said, angry at her own mechanical language.