The waiting area inside was commanded by a large clock hanging above a schedule board. The cavernous room held benches, a booth where one could buy peanuts or popcorn, a long ticket counter attended by ten or twelve clerks. A policeman walked past, looked at him without interest, and moved on.

Ram walked to the schedule board and scanned the names of the ships coming into the pier.

An elderly man approached him. He wore a suit with a pocket watch, and carried a cane. But he had the air of a vagabond. “Who you looking for, son?” he asked.

Had Ram been squinting? Too obvious in his struggle to decipher the English? “My wife. On SS Colombia.”

“Says it won’t be in until early morning,” the man said. There was phlegm in his voice. Something unhealthy.

Ram was irritated. “I am seeing that,” he said.

“Your wife isn’t in first class, is she now? They bring them onto the mainland direct if they’re first class.”

“Steerage,” Ram answered, suddenly self-conscious of his own appearance. He had worn his nicest pants and a dress shirt to greet Padma. But he could only afford to purchase her tickets in steerage.

“They’ll process her on the island, then. Might take hours. Tell you, though, there’s a place you might go early morning—a rock jutting into the water. There’s a small light there to warn the vessels away. Stand next to it and you can see the ship on the way to Angel Island. You’ll like it. You might even see her.” Ram asked him for directions to the rock. It was an hour’s walk down the post road. There would be a shack and a trail turning to the right, leading toward the water.

Ram thanked him. He went to a secluded corner and stretched out on a bench, hoping the policeman would not return. Seeing the elderly man settle down on another bench close by, Ram tucked his small bag safely under his head. He placed his hat on his face but could not sleep. The excitement was too much. He would do as the man suggested and go to the rock in the morning.

In the milky light of dawn, he followed the man’s directions to the outcropping. He was surprised by how accurate they were. Walking along the shoreline, he found the ocean unworldly. Fog drifted above the water. Sunlight cut silently through the wet chill and the ceaseless churn of the waves. When he noticed the shack, the air was just beginning to warm. He heard the occasional, uneven clang of a bell. The trail led into the cool darkness of a grove of trees, then emerged in bright sunlight at the edge of the sea. He walked out on the ragged surface of the rock, unprotected. The wind tugged at his clothing. The light stood to his left, glaring white and weather-beaten. A bell was perched at the top, twelve feet high. That was the clanging that he heard. His legs felt unsteady. His boots could not find a grip. Although he was several feet from the edge, he walked forward gingerly. The sun warmed his back. He sat against the rail of the lighthouse, the wind against his face, humbled by the sight of the water meeting the land.