When I rebooked my flight to San Diego on Tuesday, American Airlines made it clear they would happily assist with booking new flights at the low rate of three times what I initially paid, and they would not credit me with anything. If I rebook my flight again, from this Sunday to—a week from now? A month?—I could lose that entire sum. I explain the sad context of my visit to the embassy employee, but he offers no alternatives.

“Unfortunately, the embassy can help book a flight, but we can’t negotiate terms with privately owned companies. If you do reschedule, you’ll probably lose the amount you paid for the nonrefundable flight. Sorry. Have you already been contacted by embassy personnel while in Paris?”

“Yeah. I’ve had a guide, kind of, since I arrived. Jean-Luc something or other.”

“Hmm.”

“Is there a problem?”

“I don’t see anyone named Jean-Luc in the citizen assistance department.”

“I think he’s in the repatriation group.”

“Our French interns are usually in another sector. I’m trying to load his information to see if he’s working today. He might be able to help you navigate French airline websites, if you want to explore your options.”

“No, that’s fine. Thanks, anyway.” I hang up, feeling the weight of my ticking clock heavier than before. There are no outs here. I didn’t expect them to pull diplomatic privileges for me, but I had to ask. Throwing on one of Angela’s sundresses, I tuck some extra tissues into my messenger bag.

On the street, people migrate toward the metro, window-shop the boutiques, or set up artwork on easels. As I step from the tall entryway, an eerie feeling of déjà vu comes over me. Montmartre looks much like it did six days ago when I arrived. A cab slows to a stop beside me as my corner’s homeless man asks for spare change. I offer him what euro coins I have in my pocket. He accepts without speaking, eyes planted on the ground.

The light, sugary scent of fresh crêpes wafts from a street vendor’s stall. Two children drag their parents into line, leaning at earnest forty-five-degree angles. All around me people go about their normal Friday, unaware of my compacted timeline. There’s no line in front of the mobile phone store this morning, and I head toward the fold-up sign on the sidewalk.

My sister is here. Somewhere. I know it as well as I know she’s always enjoyed messing with me, staying hidden ten minutes too long just for the fun of it. There is no way she’s playing some game now.

“Miss Darby?”