The elation I felt at discovering Angela’s blog post, her note to me—Divine Research—has all but disappeared. The momentary confidence that buoyed my hopes when I realized those numbers were latitude and longitude has dissipated like a gray curl from a teenager’s cigarette here.

“Not yet.” Jean-Luc gestures for me to sit. He pulls a sheaf of clipped papers from his knapsack, then lays it on the laminate tabletop. “For you.”

He slides it across to me like a Bond operative. The cover sheet’s heading reads:

Bureau des Nations Unies, Conseil de Sécurité.

Office of the United Nations, Security Council.

“What is this?”

“I came home last night and did some research of my own.” Jean-Luc pats the space beside him. He scoots a foot over to show there’s no funny business. On his cell phone, he shows me a website with the title Les Archives de Paris 1. In the History section for 2015 is Angela’s name along with the title of her Sorbonne research paper—in English, given her bilingual undergrad degrees.

“Wow,” I breathe. “I’ve never seen this. Are all undergrad papers published online?”

Jean-Luc shakes his head. “This must have been one of the handful chosen by the department to represent that year’s work. You have to be a student at the Sorbonne to access the archives, or be granted permission like the embassy. This”—he taps the file with his index finger—“contains hard copies of her graded and published essays.”

Hope blazes in my chest, renewed by Jean-Luc’s ingenuity. The papers seem to tingle in my hands, a new treasure trove of Angela’s work. A stupid grin tightens my cheeks, squinting my eyes. “I never would have found this.”

“Happy to help.” He waves a hand.

I shake my head in disbelief and turn back to the cell phone screen. “I wonder why Angela wrote about the homeless.”

Jean-Luc relaxes into the booth. “Well, that was the summer of the record heat wave. It killed around seventy people who had no shelter and no air-conditioning. A lot of elderly died.”

Despite this revelation not being the burned toast I was expecting, tears fill my eyes. “Of course she would devote her thesis to the forgotten.”

“Your parents must be proud of you both—a Sorbonne doctoral candidate and a med school student.”

A clumsy sound issues from my throat. “Ah, they were. Our parents died. About three years ago now. The embassy didn’t tell you that?”

Jean-Luc’s mouth drops. He straightens to face me. “No, I had no idea. They only provide us with information they consider relevant to your visit. I’m so sorry.”

I shrug, then reach for my bag. “Thank you. Drunk driver in San Diego. An accident, and sudden, when he careened into them on a narrow juncture.”