By evening Jeanette has finished her transcription work, has emailed it to her temp agency. She readies for dinner, browses the freezer, hums a top 40 tune, Rihanna or Beyoncé or Adele. She glimpses a car driving up to the neighbor’s house. The neighbor’s daughter gets out, and the car U-turns around the cul-de-sac and heads away from the house. Jeanette thinks of rushing out and stopping the car. Explaining that the little girl’s mother isn’t home. But she freezes as her mind weighs possibilities, questions, her role in any of this. She looks out the window. The little girl stands before the neighbor’s door in purple leggings and a flowered polo. She holds a pink backpack with both hands. Stares up at the door. Knocks. Stares. Knocks again. The girl scans her surroundings, and her eyes stop at Jeanette’s kitchen window. They stare at each other.

What can she do? The cold grass crunches beneath her bare feet. A breeze comes and goes, rustles palms. The girl has a look of mild amusement or apprehension or both as Jeanette approaches, as she invites the girl into her home. The girl looks uncertain, frowns as Jeanette kneels before her.

“Just until we find your mom, okay? Do you know where she is?”

“No.”

“Who dropped you off?”

“Jesse.”

“Do you have Jesse’s number?”

“No.”

“Do you have your mom’s number? Maybe a cell phone?”

“She doesn’t have one. I have my number, my house number.”

“How about a family member we can call?”

“No.”

“No, like you don’t know their number? Know their name?”

“No.”

“Like an aunt or an uncle maybe? A grandma?”

“They live in El Salvador.”

“Okay, well. We’ll go inside. I’ll fix you a little snack while we try to find your mom?”

The girl hesitates but then takes Jeanette’s open hand. She lets Jeanette lead her into the house, where she lumbers onto a kitchen chair and places her backpack at her feet. Her legs dangle. She is silent, fiddles with a ruffle at the hem of her shirt.

“Do you like Hot Pockets?”

“Yes.”

“Do you want a Hot Pocket?”

“Yes.”

“What’s your name?”

“Ana.”

“Ana, I’m Jeanette.”

“Is my mom dead?”

“Oh God, honey. No, she’s not dead.”

Monosyllables. One-word answers. The microwave beeps. Steam emerges as Jeanette cuts the Hot Pocket in two. She places a paper plate before Ana and says, “It’s hot.” The television announces a sale on brand-name mattresses of every kind. Prices slashed. Unbelievable savings. One-time event. Jeanette pieces together her own made-up stories: Immigration agents busted the mom for a fake social security number, some other harmless action born of necessity. The mother is desperately trying to explain that she had a daughter coming home from—

“Where were you again last night?”