“Bored. I told him to go for a walk, but he won’t listen to me. Here, you tell him.”

And with that, Phoebe was handed back to her father, conversation over. She could never seem to beat past her mother’s defenses, her brusque exterior and her practicality.

“Apa?” Phoebe said, and he grunted his assent. “Go for a walk, Apa. Umma has her iPad and the nurses are there. You need to take care of yourself, too. Go outside and stretch your legs. Get something from the coffee stand.”

“Okay, okay,” he said, the resignation plain in his voice. He would go for a walk if it would please them, but it would be the shortest walk a man ever took.

“I’ll call you guys tomorrow,” Phoebe said, and she hung up.

So many things went unspoken in their family, I love you among them. Umma and Apa hardly ever spoke of their sisters and brothers who still lived in Korea. They each had family in the North, too, extended networks of aunts and uncles, cousins and friends whom they would never see again. Phoebe had once read a book of letters from defectors to their loved ones left behind in the North. There was no postal service between the two countries, so the letters were never received, and yet they all ended with the same plea to stay alive until we can meet again. Phoebe had been moved by the correspondents’ constancy. Such a simple plan, to exist. To outlast.

Umma hadn’t given up. She wouldn’t want her daughter to either. Phoebe would outlast Ted and Jerry and all the producers who told her no. But she would need help, and to get it, she’d have to give help in exchange.

Phoebe checked the time, then found the card Rona had pressed into her hand. She dialed the number on the card.

“I’m glad you called,” Rona said, after Phoebe gave her name.

“I wasn’t going to.”

“That’s okay. I’m listening.”

“I don’t have anything to say about Jerry Silver,” Phoebe said. “Ted is the one you should talk to.”

“Phoebe, he’ll never talk to me without a reason. Give me something to go on.”

Now that she had Rona on the phone, Phoebe was tongue-tied, the abstract fear she’d mostly learned to live with materializing like a fist in her mouth.

“Phoebe, what do you know about Caitlyn Alvarez?” Rona asked.

“The actress from that NASCAR show?”

“Caitlyn was the lead on The Bag Man, too, which Jerry produced. Then Stabler took it over and scrapped the whole project. She hasn’t worked since. Another missing person, like you.”

“I saw the video online. Nick Williams screamed at her on set.”