I wait nearly twenty minutes for a cab, and when the driver pulls up he looks at me disapprovingly. I give him the address then try to relax, shutting my eyes when the stress gets too intense. It takes thirty minutes to make our way through traffic, and when the cab driver pulls up to the address, a thread of disappointment moves through me. The apartment building is old with peeling white paint and a parched lawn. The upper apartments have balconies crammed full of rusted barbecues and lawn furniture, and looking at them makes my stomach twist. I’ve never seen this particular apartment building, but I’ve known many like it. We lived in so many of them.

“This it?” my cab driver asks gruffly.

“I hope so,” I mumble. I hand him most of the rest of my cash and step out, pulling my backpack after me, and the cab drives away immediately. I have twenty-seven dollars left. I try not to think about what it will mean if this isn’t where my mom is. She has to be here.

The walk up to the apartment entrance feels about a million miles long, and my legs feel shaky. A dog is barking, and conceptually I know it’s hot out, the sun is out and the air is thick with humidity, but I feel cold.

The apartments are a maze of peeling white buildings. A few people have tried to make them look nicer with potted plants and welcome rugs, but most of them have scuffed doors and rotting railings. I see a cat in one window, nearly have a heart attack when a dog lunges at me from behind a screen door.

I have no idea which apartment she’s in. Do I start knocking on doors? Stand in the hallway and yell her name? I stop at one door with a ratty Christmas wreath attached to it. A TV blares from inside, a game show or a commercial, something with a man’s heavy voice talking about the incredible deal you’ll get if you call right away. Before I can lose my nerve, I knock. Then knock again.

Nothing.

The hallway’s noises and smells are bringing back memories of things I thought were gone. People pounding on our door in the middle of the night. Being alone for hours with nothing but a bag of popcorn and the TV for company. My mom’s eyes closed for hours on end. Acid creeps up the back of my throat, my legs wobbly beneath me.

I knock again.

Finally I hear footsteps, then a chain, and the door flies open to reveal a small old woman with yellowed teeth, her hair tucked under a shower cap. She looks up at me angrily, all but baring her teeth.

“Who are you? What do you want?”

“Sorry. Excuse me. I’m…” I shake my head, trying to rearrange my thoughts. “Does Naomi Greer live here?”