“Actually, I’d like to talk to the doctor. Um . . . Dr. Yazzie?”

“You want to talk to the head of the department?”

“Mmhmm.”

The nurse took a breath. “Okay. I’ll buzz her. She might be in the middle of something, but—”

“I’ll wait.”

Good grief, she was in it now. She followed the nurse past the rooms of laboring women, others who were sleeping, having already delivered, and finally down to a corridor of offices.

The nurse showed her a chair in a smaller waiting area. “It looks like her office is dark, but she’s probably still in the building.”

Probably still in the building.

“No hurry.” Echo peeled off her jacket, then her hat, and dropped everything in a pile on a nearby chair.

The nurse left.

The corridor held three smaller rooms, all with names on the doors—head nurse, an administrator, and department head.

All the doors were closed.

She walked over to her mother’s office and knocked. She didn’t know what she expected, but after silence, she gripped the handle.

It turned.

She took a breath and slipped inside.

It wasn’t fancy. An L-shaped desk was shoved against the window, filled with papers. The desk portion faced two black chairs stationed side by side. A tall shelf behind the desk held a wall of textbooks, and a number of certificates and awards hung on the wall opposite the window. Excellence in Medicine from the OB-GYN National Board, The Haffner Award for care of Alaskan Native Women, the Dr. Anne P. Lanier Meritorious Health Service Award.

A picture of Dr. Evaline Yazzie with shoulder-length blond hair, wearing a white dress and black glasses, standing next to a tall, middle-aged man in a suit in front of a banner for Alaska Women’s Health. She held a plaque, another award.

Echo leaned in, trying to see the woman she remembered.

No. Her mother had long blond hair and a smile that turned her eyes a vivid green. And she was taller. This woman seemed worlds away, her eyes hard, focused. Her smile tight.

“Oh my gosh.”

She stilled, then turned to the voice.

A woman stood in the doorway. She wore her hair short and tucked behind her ears and was thinner than the woman in the picture.

But the eyes. The green eyes she knew fixed on her.

“Echo?”

“Uh.” She swallowed, nodded. “I . . . uh . . .”

“Echo.” The woman walked into the room, straight toward her, and pulled her into her arms. “Oh my gosh. What are you doing here?”

She stood stiff, not sure how to break free of the chill that bolted her to the spot.

The woman—her mother—smelled the same. She remembered the scent of that cream she used on her skin, homemade from lavender and mint. And the way she said her name, softly, like she did when she would tuck her in, kiss her goodnight—

This was a terrible idea. “I—”