The coolness of her tone startled me. I looked away from her and noticed that one of the photographs on the wall showed a small group of men standing in front of the Center’s main doors. At the bottom of the photograph, a piece of yellowing tape read Darshan Family 1982. I looked at the photo to its right. 1983. Dominique cleared her throat; I ignored her, and followed the photographs around the room until I came to the last one—but no, it was two years old. There was no sign of my father in it. I did see Luke, looking young and clean, his hair short, one arm around Dominique’s waist, the other around the shoulders of a woman I didn’t recognize, all three thin and grinning. I put my hand against the wall where the next year’s photograph should have hung. It felt strangely warm.

“If that’s all,” Dominique said. “You’d better get ready for dinner.”

I didn’t ask Harriet and Nisha about my father. Instead, I asked them about Serena, but they only knew what everyone did, which was everything.