Sometimes you think your life story is a straight line, a road humming forward. Maybe Ammi thought her story was a clear way ahead. She went to the best schools. She had a family, fancy clothes, a spot at university. A big wedding and husband.

Me too: I thought Fatima and I were the same.

I thought my biggest problem was Ammi trying to be me.

I thought I got my height from Abu.

I was so focused on what was ahead, that I didn’t understand what was behind me. It was too complicated. It didn’t make a clean story.

What good is a story if you don’t know all the parts?

Since we got back from the Canadian border three days ago, I sleep in Carlos’s bed. Sam and the others were pissed at what we did, but then they leave me alone. The pillow still smells of Carlos: of his soap, his hair, the chalky powder of pastels. When I shut my eyes, all I see are highway lanes, thrumming motion. Then sleep. And dark. I take Kamal downstairs to camp, a few hours later bring him up, and heat up one of the dinners the volunteers leave for us. I let him watch videos or TV. I don’t walk the grounds or take Kamal to the barn to jump onto the hay bales. I keep my phone off. The Canadian authorities probably took Carlos’s phone and it will be a while before I hear from him. Even so, it will probably be through the lawyers. I don’t look at my emails, the orientation announcement, the book list. I haven’t written to Amirah. What’s the point? I can’t go forward or back. I scribble in my notebook, try to write.

Disappeared.

The word I learned when Abu didn’t come back.

When a boy I loved hiked his backpack

Crossed a border, gone.

The gunky space under sink pipes.

Dusty floor-bottom where I dropped my barrette.

The place where things go to die.

Abu also taught me you can put an “un” before a word

Make it the opposite.

Why can’t that be true of a person?

Why can’t I put an “un” before his memory

Restore him

To me.

A happy, flushed Kamal jumps onto my bed holding two dripping ice cream cups.

“Don’t spill!” I push aside my notebook.

I thought Kamal would fold into sadness when Carlos left, but he walks around the sanctuary apartment with a puffed-out chest, declaring that he can take his own showers or pour his own cereal. He leaves the cup on the night table and dashes off. Slowly, I start spooning the ice cream, which soothes.