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.

Ferries and tugboats chugged past, sails, a steamer bearing the wrong name and the flag of another country. Then he saw it, entering San Francisco bay like a dream—that was how Ram would remember it for years afterward. The fog parted and the ship appeared, the waves sweeping past the hull as if it were a sea beast, enormous. People were huddled on the deck, and—could it be?—a woman stood with a shawl gathered about her. She was next to a man, holding a black-haired child, but the child would not turn toward him. Perhaps she was too far away, but he thought he could see the shape of her shoulders, the curve of her face. It belonged to him; he was part of that curve, of that uneven way she stood.

“Padma!” he yelled. “Padma!” But the unceasing wind smothered his voice. The woman turned away. She could not have heard, not with the wind whipping against the ship, the water parting before it, the violent hum of the sea meeting the shore.