The officer gives her a small smile. Her eyes look puzzled.

“At commercial farms,” Karina continues, “the eggs are all washed and disinfected with bleach to kill any traces of salmonella, and the protective layer is also washed away. That’s why store-bought eggs have to be refrigerated right away.”

“There’s someone here for you, Karina,” the officer says gently, and now Karina notices two other figures emerge from behind her. Her mother and father. “We gave her some food,” the officer says to them. “And we offered her a change of clothes since, you can see, hers are soaked. But she refused.”

“Thank you,” her mother says to the officer, putting her palms together in a gesture of gratitude.

The officer smiles. “I’ll give you some privacy. Take as much time as you need.” She pulls the door closed, leaving Karina and her parents alone.

They approach her tentatively, as they would a wild animal. The distance feels enormous. Karina stands and takes a step toward them, her mask crumbling as she falls into her mother’s arms. “Shh,” Mom says, stroking her head, rocking her gently side to side. The rhythm of her mother’s movements soothes Karina; from behind, her dad’s strong arms wrap her in an embrace. She stays there, comfortable in the safety of their cocoon, until Dad pulls away.

“We’re so glad you’re okay, honey. Can you tell us what happened?” His face is worn, his eyes tired, and suddenly Karina feels the weight of her own exhaustion. She cannot hold herself up any longer. She slumps back into the chair, rests her head on the table. Her parents sit down on either side of her, Mom’s hand never leaving her back.

Where should she start? The Sanctuary, Greenfields, Micah, August? Further back: Natural Foods Market, Henry, James? How far back does she have to go to unwind the bad decisions, the poor judgments and all the pain? Prem. Karina sits up and pulls from her back pocket the wet piece of paper. She unfolds it on the table, smooths the creases with her palms and looks at the smiling face of her little brother. She hears Mom’s breath catch. “He spoke to me,” Karina says, softly at first, then again louder so they will believe her. “Prem spoke to me at the ocean.” She looks at Dad, his eyes full of sorrow and confusion, as if he pities her or thinks her delusional.

But Mom squeezes Karina’s hand resting on the table, and her eyes glisten as she smiles. “And what did he say?”

“It wasn’t my fault.”

“What wasn’t, darling?” Mom asks.

“It wasn’t my fault he died.” With the voicing of these words, a torrent gushes from her, a sobbing she can’t choke back.

“Of course, it wasn’t, honey,” Dad says, his brow furrowed.

Karina places her palms on the edges of the photo, its color faded along its creases. Prem’s boyish face and missing teeth. His expression of sheer joy. She smiles at her brother, touches the tip of her nose, then his. “He was happy,” she says in a whisper. “He had a good life.”