After Carlita left, Marisa slid into the cracked leather seat in front of the new desktop, her portal to civilization, and typed. The computer had been a gift from the church in Oklahoma that supported the orphanage. Marisa tried to get on the computer once a day, mostly to remind herself there was a world outside of her little village. She loved to read the news and check Facebook. Her sister's posts were rare, but any time Marisa was able to see Leslie's face, even if the photograph was old, it made her heart sing—and yearn for home. Most of the time, their Internet was too spotty to waste time. She navigated to the paint supplier's website and ordered the things she needed. Since Carlita wasn't back yet, Marisa clicked over to her email, though she knew it was pointless. She checked almost daily. She hadn't received an email in eight years.

But today, there was a message in her inbox. The sender's address gave no indication who it was.

Her hands shook, though from excitement or fear, she wasn't sure.

She clicked on the message and read the text.

It's Nate Boyle. I'm here with your sister. She needs to get in touch with you. It's an emergency.

Marisa stared at the words, almost afraid to move. Afraid they'd disappear, a mirage in the Mexican heat. Her heart pounded as if she'd been running. She swiped her moist hands on her shorts.

Her feelings were a knotted ball of multicolored threads, and she wasn't sure which color to untangle first. She was excited to hear from them, of course. Excited, but another thread had her heart thumping wildly, because if Leslie had gone to the trouble to find her, something must be very wrong.

Marisa looked up from the screen to see if anybody was watching. Old habits and all that, but she was alone and the space was quiet, if you didn't count the sounds of the children playing in the courtyard and the rumble of carts and clunker cars on the gravel out front. And she didn't—those sounds had become as common to her as the rattle of the radiator and the blast of car horns had been in New York.

She stared at the words. Nate Boyle. She'd first known him as Walter Boyle, no more than a by-line in the local paper back in Queens. She wouldn't have known what he looked like if not for the times he'd filled in for the regular columnist and had his photograph printed above the column. She wouldn't have cared if she hadn't recognized him as the guy she saw almost daily on the bus on her way to class. And she wouldn't have noticed him at all if he hadn't been so attractive.