He couldn't tell if she was holding in her emotion or had become numb to the situation. "Why don't you get some clothes and whatever else you need? I can buy you another bag on the way."

She stepped into the bedroom, flipped on another overhead light that bathed the space in gloom, and crossed to a tiny bureau.

He stepped into the doorway. One bed, a double. They must have shared it. Above the bed was a beautiful landscape, a mural of the sun rising over the old mission that stood across the street. It was painted right onto the stucco wall. The rest of the scene appeared different from what he'd made out in the dark. Verdant fields of crops, smiling people, and well-kept houses.

"The village as it should be," Marisa said.

He turned to see her watching him. "It's beautiful. You're so talented."

She pivoted back, opened the middle drawer of the short bureau that looked like a garage sale find, and dug through it.

"Can I help?"

She tossed a pair of jeans and a sweatshirt onto the bed. "I don't think so." She added underwear and bras to the pile. He turned away and surveyed the living room. Well, living, dining, and kitchen. Like a great room, only about the size of a normal dining room. If that. The kitchen consisted of a two-burner stovetop, a tiny sink, and a refrigerator about Ana's height. They ate on a rickety table for two. The living room consisted of a futon that looked like it was about to fall over. From behind, he could see it was supported not by legs, but by concrete blocks. There was no TV, but a small radio stood on top of the bookshelf. The other shelves held books, notebooks, pens, pencils, and paints. Lots of paints.

And he could see why. The walls were nearly papered in paintings, some of local vistas and people, but there were plenty of New York. Manhattan and Queens and what looked like scenes of upstate. And portraits. Leslie with an older woman who looked like her—their mother presumably. A handsome dark-skinned man. Probably Marisa's father—she looked like him. Lots of portraits of Ana and other folks Nate assumed were friends here. There were a few of Vinnie. And on the bookshelves, stacks of canvases. He stepped closer, saw they also held paintings. He lifted the one on top—two little Mexican children arm-in-arm. He flipped through the portraits until he reached one that had him pausing.

It was his own image, staring back at him. His hair was longer, like he'd worn it when he and Marisa had met. He was seated on a bus, his eyes concerned, his mouth turned down at the corners.

It was probably exactly how he'd looked the day they'd met. And she'd remembered every detail.

The way he'd always remembered her.

"It's my therapy," she said.