I turn and give him a little kick.

“What was it about him that you liked?” Ammi asks.

I want to say: watching him draw, the tiny jump in my chest when he’d return from working the morning shift, smelling of cooking oil. The dare, the exhilaration every time we came up with a new plan on the road. It was the feeling that I was protected and also, I was protecting him. And most of all he taught me patience. Paciencia. How to listen to myself.

Instead I say, “He was awesome, Ammi. He could draw anything! Anyone! Everyone loved Carlos. Kamal adored him. And most of all, he wasn’t afraid.” I pause. “He taught me to…wait.”

Ammi smiles broadly, puts her palms on either side of my head, and says, “You are my daughter then.”

A sob clutches my throat. “But I lost him, Ammi. How am I ever going to live with that?”

Her face crumples. “Oh, my child.” She puts her arms tight around my neck. We sway, shoulders pressed, her sandalwood scent and hair mingled with mine. I picture Carlos in a shelter, by himself, and I remember a line my mother sang: I should be patient, you say, without my love.

Then I pull away, wiping my eyes. “Please, no more lies. At least not to me, ever.”

She hesitates. She’s hidden her past for so long. But finally it has been flung open. “Okay-okay.”

She gets up, slaps her thighs. “Chalo. We go home, yes?”

I don’t get up from the bench. It’s as if I’m wedded to its slats. “Ammi, I’m not going back with you.” Seeing the cloud of hurt on her face, I add quickly, “I want to walk back. By myself.” I add brightly, “I got a job working in a bookstore.”

“Which one? Is it the one in Park Slope? I always go there—”

I hold my hand up. “Ammi, it’s my job. Not yours.”

She offers a crooked grin. “Okay-okay.”

We stand. We’re on the pavement that curves toward the entrance to the Brooklyn Bridge. A few bicyclists swerve down the bridge ramp. It seems that everyone has left the city: All the people with cars and houses, with money, have left or are shut into their air-conditioned apartments.

“Makes me think of Whitman,” Ammi murmurs. “ ‘Crossing Brooklyn Ferry.’ ”

Smiling, I quote: “ ‘Others will enter the gates of the ferry and cross from shore to shore.’ ”

Ammi answers, “ ‘Others will watch the run of the flood-tide.’ ”

We both laugh. Our hands find each other’s. “I still believe that, Rania. There is room for us, in this country.”