I lift my hand to another cab, then stop midwave. The pamphlet. A quick rummage through the sections of my handbag, the zipped outer pocket against my hip, and the inner adult pocket that hides bandages and aspirin, confirms my burst of clarity: it’s still upstairs. Using a few choice words in English, I trudge back the whole block from the building I managed to travel.

The pamphlet lies on the desk, right where I left it, next to Angela’s illuminated laptop screen, still bright from my earlier use and displaying her inbox. I’ve been very careful to check my email on my own laptop, to avoid signing Angela out of hers. For a reason I can’t place, instead of grabbing the rectangle of paper and leaving, I slide into Angela’s desk chair. My back presses flat against the cool wood. Gliding her mouse along the left-hand margin of her inbox folders, I hover over an arrow I’d ignored before; I click on it, and a hidden list expands, revealing a folder entitled UPDATES. I click again.

Emails are shown in order by drafts then sent date—there are seven of them. Most were sent during her first few months here, and I remember replying to them. Drafts that she never sent—Update #1 and Update #2—seem to be written a few months after our parents passed away; I’ve never seen these.

The final draft email seems to have been written a week before she disappeared. I hesitate over the subject line, Update #18, then click on it.

Chapter 23

Chapter 23

from: Angela Darby <[email protected]>

to: “Darby, Shayna” <[email protected]>

subject: Update #18

Salut, dearest sister! The party was hyper chouette last weekend. Carine got so wasted I thought she might puke into Serge’s hat like last time, but the giant baguette we ate for dinner balanced her stomach. That and the late-night kebab at three in the morning. Me, I got so drunk I started calling her Karen. God bless French drunk food! I miss burritos bad, but I’ll take a French fry kebab until Mexican culture makes its way here. I got my best grade yet this semester on my final research paper for my third year of graduate school and really feel like I’m getting the hang of my French slang. Salut, ma poule!