Finally, I place the unfinished canvas with the red stars at the corners on the last easel to complete the set.

I know so much more about what my mother was painting before she died, and yet I still have no idea what any of it means. And now I have another mystery to unravel—the wet folded piece of paper. The man with the umbrella was unfamiliar but not exactly forgettable. He had a line of hooped earrings in one ear and a small diamond stud above his left eyebrow. No, I didn’t know him, but he seemed to know me.

I go to the kitchen to retrieve the tablet from my bag, glad that it was waterproof or I would be totally screwed. Then I curl up on my bed and draw what I can remember of the man in the rain.

Taller than me, but that’s not saying much. Yellow umbrella. Dark stubble against slightly olive skin. And sunglasses. Despite the rain and the dark, he was wearing black sunglasses. Maybe if I had seen his eyes I would recognize him. But looking at the image I have created, I find nothing about his face that pulls at my memory.

Rain pounds the roof as I turn and stare at the paper sitting on the nightstand. I’ll give it another hour to dry, I think, just before my eyes close.

I dream that I am lost in a forest of silver metal trees—hungry and tired and desperate to find a way out. When I see a crust of bread, I race toward it and cram it into my mouth before I can even think about who might have left it on the ground or why. I find another crust fifty feet away. The trees start to change color—bronze and wrought iron, then gold—as I follow the trail of crusts to the edge of a rickety bridge that spans a gaping hole that I can’t see the bottom of. I am just about to step onto the first wooden slat when I hear someone call my name.

“Meri—wake up. Your alarm didn’t go off. You have to get up. . . . Meri!”

I snap open my eyes. My father’s face comes into focus above me, and for a second, I don’t understand why. I am still standing at the bridge past the forest of metal trees, looking for more bits of bread, trying to find my way out. Then the words sink in. The bridge and the bread vanish as I sit up straight and glance at the clock. For the first time in months, I slept for six hours straight.

“I’m going to be late,” I say, leaping off the bed.

“I can drive you,” my father offers. “And I’ll put some coffee in a go cup just in case you decide you want it.”

It takes me just minutes to put on my uniform, brush my teeth and hair, and grab my things.

Wait.

I hurry back into my room, snatch the now dry paper off my nightstand, and shove it in the side pocket of my bag so I can open it later. Dad has the coffee and a toasted bagel ready for me when I reach the kitchen. I grab both and am glad he suggested the ride because I am just walking into the gym for my physical education final as the second bell rings.