It’s my turn to nod silently. It’s the first time I’ve heard that—sorry. It’s the first time someone’s acknowledged that I lost something. My eyes start to well up, and I blink furiously to drive the tears back before they can fall. I’d rather not cry on the shoulder of someone I just met.

“Well, I’m going to go now,” I say, waving an arm toward the gate. “It was nice meeting you.”

“Yeah, sure thing. See you around.”

I leave him standing there in the same spot, smoking his cigarette, as I hustle through the gate and down the street.

Being in the Quarter, I think I should feel something for this place. But the brick facades and delicate ironwork don’t move me. My feet slap a rhythm against the sidewalk, and I tell myself I have no particular destination. I make my turns at random. Every time the three dark steeples of St. Louis Cathedral come into view, I hasten around the next corner to avoid the square. I weave in and out of tourist shops and art galleries, fingering souvenirs I have no intention of buying. The streets crawl with people.

I like the quiet streets best, at the fringes of the Quarter, full of shadowy alcoves and shuttered windows. If I stand still and close my eyes, I believe I can hear the buildings sigh. Their walls whisper secrets when I press my face against them. There is a story beneath the frenzy, a hundred thousand stories that make up this city, and now mine is among them, like it or not.

When my legs are aching and I’ve sweated my last drop of hydration, I make a beeline for the square, remembering that bottle of water my mother packed this morning. I could go home, but the whole day, I’ve been circling the square trying to work up the nerve to see her. I can’t avoid who she is or what she does forever. Moony’s collapse is like a dying star pulling opposing corners of the universe together.

Jackson Square is everything a tourist would expect. At its heart is the gothic palace that is St. Louis Cathedral, pristine and watchful with her one giant clock-face eye. Her shadow is long and chilling over the garden unrolled before her. Cobblestone wraps around the garden, making a wide, carless street for sidewalk vendors. It’s here, in this dizzying throng of nomads and artists, that my mother keeps her office.