* * *

At the precinct station outside Santa Barbara, a young female officer meets Keith and Jaya at the front desk to escort them to the room upstairs where Karina is waiting. “Has your daughter ever been diagnosed with mental illness?” she asks as they climb the stairwell.

“What?” Keith exclaims. “Of course not. She’s a scholarship student.”

“It’s not unusual for bipolar disorder or schizophrenia to manifest for the first time in a person’s early twenties,” the officer says. “You should have her assessed when you get her home. In addition to the disorientation and name confusion, she appears to be food-deprived and have some self-inflicted wounds on her inner arm.”

Keith stops on the landing. “She . . . you mean, she tried to kill herself?”

The officer looks slowly from one of them to the other. “They don’t appear to be those kinds of wounds, not a serious attempt at suicide anyway. But there are signs of self-harm.”

“What was she doing at the ocean?” Jaya asks.

“According to the 911 caller, she stood in the water for a while before walking farther in. She was dressed in street clothes, so I don’t know what her intentions were, if she was in possible danger of . . . well, drowning can happen quickly in those currents. Even for a strong swimmer.”

A small cry escapes from Jaya as she stumbles on the step, grabbing the banister just in time. Keith moves to hold her up and keeps his arm wrapped around her shoulders as they take the last few stairs together.

“Mr. and Mrs. Olander,” the officer says as they reach the top landing, her hand on the door handle. “I’m not sure what’s happening with your daughter. All I know is she needs all your love and support right now.”

Keith and Jaya nod solemnly, at the mercy of this stranger who seems to know more about their daughter than they do.

* * *

The cardboard container of fried eggs and hash browns is nearly clean, after Karina wipes up the last morsels of cheesy yolk with the toast, then her finger. It tastes so good, and she hadn’t eaten anything since early the day before. A scratchy gray blanket is draped over her shoulders, sealing in the chill of clammy clothes against her skin.

The door to the room swings open, and the female officer who brought her the food enters. “How was your meal?” she asks.

The kindness this officer has shown Karina makes her want to cry—this person who doesn’t even know her. Karina nods in thanks and offers up all she has to give. “Do you know, when an egg comes out of a hen’s body, it has a natural coating that seals the pores of the shell against bacteria in the air? It’s a natural insulation system. As long as you don’t wash fresh eggs from a hen, they don’t have to be refrigerated. They can stay out on the counter for two weeks.”