The sun’s just setting when the GPS lands us on a strip of dirt road. There’s barely a path. The trees are so thick their branches scrape against the windshield. The wheels snap branches as the car rolls over them.

“Okay, house in the forest? I’m not driving over this,” Allister says, stopping the car.

In the distance, through the trees, I see pieces of a shed . . . behind it, a porch. It’s nearly hidden from view, but it’s the only house out here. That must be it. We’re parked enough out of the way that the car is obscured by underbrush, a few yards away from the entrance.

My stomach is boiling. “There’s no fucking way she’ll believe door knockers who came out of nowhere to approach her forest home.”

“Oh, God.” Allister pinches the bridge of his nose. “Let Fiona handle it, Jake! We’ll wait in the car. Two Black boys barging in at once is what will stretch the credibility for Ms. Karen Doon.”

Fiona seems unfazed by the fact that we’re in the forest—actually, she seems more excited. She rips out a sheet of notebook paper and writes sorry in red Sharpie. She gets out and slaps it over the license plate.

Allister watches her through the back windshield. “Wow. She’s thorough.”

“Hi, Mrs. Doon?” Fiona rehearses in the window. She pokes her head through the car door. “Be ready to speed off at a moment’s notice.”

And off she goes to ring the bell on the front porch. I sink down in my seat and pull my shirt half over my face. She glances back and gives us a wink.

“Look at her,” Allister says. “Using her privilege for good. Ain’t that something?”

“Yeah. This is not gonna work.”

“We really need to work on your pessimism.”

She rings the doorbell again when no one comes.

Allister asks, “How do you feel about her, anyway? Fiona. Do you like her?”

“Of course I do.”

“No, I mean do you like her.”

“Oh . . . no. Haven’t thought about her that way. We’re just friends.”

A blond lady opens the door. It must be Sawyer’s mom. She’s in a denim shirt buttoned all the way up. I can’t make out her features from way back here, but her face looks tired, her cheeks hungry.

I’ve never heard anyone talk about what happened to Sawyer’s family. It’s almost like they were just accepted as part of the mistake.

Fiona starts talking. And they continue talking. A full minute passes, with Allister and me holding our breath, watching through the branches that hang over the windshield. I’m half expecting the woman to see us in the car. How concealed are we, really?

But her attention doesn’t leave Fiona.

“It’s working,” Allister whispers.