He’d said if she ever knocked on his door, he’d answer. If she could just see his face, she was sure they could work everything out. And she thought maybe he needed to see her here, outside the safe shell of the family ranch, to believe they might have something real.

She already felt more real. She’d stayed in whatever motel appealed to her for the night, and chatted with strangers she met at stops along the road, even men. She should have taken a trip years ago. It was weirdly freeing to be alone in a place where no one knew her history. She could be anyone.

She took one more turn and then hit a bridge, the sound of her tires buzzing into an even hum as she crossed a canal. Her window hissed down, and thick, humid air draped her face. This was it. The Lower Ninth Ward: LJ’s home, which she’d heard so much about. She just hoped there was a parking spot somewhere that was her size.

As soon as she turned onto the first street, Andra’s smile faded. The rest of the town was packed to the last inch with brightly painted houses, tiny cars, and enormous trees. But here there was nothing but space. She slowed down, her head swiveling.

The lots were like a mouthful of broken teeth: the houses dotted here and there just served to draw attention to the gaping holes where others should have been. In places, there were only porch stairs left, their steps leading up to nothingness.

When LJ had talked about home, he’d never said anything about this.

A young mother pushing a stroller turned to scowl at Andra’s truck, and she realized she was staring. She shook her head and replaced her foot on the gas. Her phone announced that she’d reached her destination, but no house waited at the end of the concrete walk. Andra double-checked the number on the address she’d pulled off LJ’s résumé, and peered out her side window. Bushes grew up out of the windows of the nearest house, and the numbers were long gone. The next one looked inhabited, but she gaped in horror at the faded spray paint of the X by the front door. Squinting at those numbers, she forgot to look for the ones that denoted the address.

She couldn’t imagine living in a house with the number of her lost loved ones painted across the front. She threw a glance into the passenger seat, where LJ’s old door still rested. It looked conspicuous, even wrapped in a sheet.

The house across the street had another X on it, bricks showing through the fading paint. What had the rescuers been thinking, vandalizing homes that way? You couldn’t paint over brick. They must have thought no one would ever live in them again.