Sam pauses, head tilted back, taking in the huge space. “My mother survived World War II hiding in a barn in southern France. She always felt that so much of her youth was stolen. And so when she came here—” His eyes look moist. “She wanted to give that back to children.”

That’s why he volunteers for the sanctuary.

“Kamal, you want to jump in the hay?” He points to the loft.

“Yes!” Kamal squeals. He’s afraid, but loves watching brave feats.

Carlos streaks up the slanted ladder while Kamal and I straggle behind, through the itchy, warm hay. We look up to see Carlos, arms out, then he arches his back and sails downward, belly first, landing in the bales with a terrifying thud. My heart jolts into my mouth. Is he okay?

A rustling noise. Carlos emerges from the hay, straw sticking every which way from his hair. He gives a lopsided grin. “¡Qué chido!”

Sam claps his hands. He looks like he wants to cry and laugh. Above, Kamal stands on the edge. “Me too!”

“Kamal, be careful!”

He shoots me an annoyed look.

Carlos has returned to the landing and stands behind Kamal, gently explaining. “Just like in the water, hermanito. Bend your knees. Then jump.”

Kamal’s legs quiver. He thrusts his arms in front of him, pushes his head down. Then he drops with a squeal, bouncing on the hay bales. “I did it!” he shouts.

We spend the afternoon jumping from the loft. Over and over, laughing each time we sprawl in the crackling straw, then kicking ourselves up again, and dropping, again and again. I feel strangely safe. This is the best kind of sanctuary: not the prayers, that hushed space, where people’s devotion makes them care for us. Just three kids, leaping into the air, the hay softly catching us.

That night, curled again on the sofa with Carlos, a new memory loosens and I describe it to him: I am with Ammi, hurrying to the market. Our flat in Lahore is topsy-turvy from packing. We must buy a new piece of luggage because the zipper was broken on ours. But a man steps out from behind a stall. I do not recognize him; he argues with Ammi. He is handsome, with a strong face, and he takes her pale wrist and pulls on it. I cannot see Ammi’s expression—she wears sunglasses all the time from her crying. You stop that! I want to say. He reaches for me, holds me clumsily. Come to Papa, he says.

You’re not my papa! I giggle and try to wriggle away.

He lets go his grip. You will regret this, he hisses to Ammi, and then he is gone.

“Whoa,” Carlos says. He strokes my back until I grow calm. “That is creepy. How come you didn’t remember?”

“I sort of did. In snatches. But that time when we left is such a blur.”