I cruise Benefit Street, working up the courage to ring her old basement apartment’s buzzer. First, I scout the branching side streets for her orange Nissan, or any orange compact car. I find a blueberry muffin–sized Honda Fit that’s a burnt orange. Close enough? I came prepared for long shots and maybes. In my hoodie’s front kangaroo pocket, I have a stack of twenty stationery cards. I figure a well-made card (thicker stock, made from 100 percent compostable tree-free paper) would be less likely to be ignored or thrown away without being read than a flimsy, folded-up piece of paper. Stenciled on the front of each card is a brief Kurt Vonnegut quote of my choosing: “Hello babies. Welcome to earth.” The card recipient then has the responsibility to be literate enough to know the rest of the famous text that follows about kindness. I wrote the following on the inside of each card. I only botched two that I’ll recycle later.

Just “M,” right? Not Mercy. Or MARY!

Dude. You can’t publish your cell phone number.

I leave a card pinned under the Honda’s windshield wiper. As I walk back to my car, the card rattles against the glass in an invisible breeze. It’s like I’m making the note nervous by watching it. Should I leave a second one under the other wiper? No, my cards don’t grow on trees, and they must be strategically rationed.

Like the twitching basement door latch from the scene with your mom?

Back in my own failed-inspection-twice vehicle, with the Fit out of sight, I reflexively check my phone for a text from Mercy, which is stupid, I know. There aren’t any other orange compact cars parked in the neighborhood. I’m tempted to leave cards with random cars on the off chance she isn’t driving an orange one anymore. If only I could dowse her car. (I love the word “dowse,” and pledge to use it whenever I can.)

Obviously, she might not live here anymore, and even if she did, she could be working. I try to imagine the job she has: wedding photographer (that makes me smile), a photographer for dying newspapers (but an anti–Peter Parker, one who husked both Uncle Ben and Aunt May), or maybe her gig is totally random, like an archivist for one of the one zillion libraries in the area, or a conservationist accounting the yearly decline of barnacles growing on jetties, or writing term papers for college kids and ghostwriting online dating profiles, or a ride-share driver who leaves her fares with a backache or a cough. The latter is the least likely, I think. She’s not that deliberate.

I can’t tell if I’m insulted or interested.