“But the deadline—” Sylvie says.

Lidia waves her hand. Once the door shuts, it’s as if the room were suddenly cast in cold shadow. “They never used to bother with cases like your mother’s. She checked in, year in, year out. It was routine. But the situation is volatile now. Every day it’s another rule, another policy change.” She shakes her head. “Zero tolerance, they call it. The raids are out of control. I think they’re trying to fill some kind of quota. To show they’re tough on immigration. Or that call I just got. A simple H1B renewal. Now they make my clients jump through hoops to prove they aren’t taking a job from an American.”

I don’t care about policies or words like zero tolerance. I just want to see my mother—my stubborn, proud, impossible mother. I want to fight with her, put my arms around her, feel her scraggly curls against my throat. I want her to bustle into our bedroom and fling open the curtains, chide Kamal while gently slapping his bare soles. I want it all—the mess of combs and lotions and soaps she leaves in the bathroom, her unmade bed in the living room, her bossy instructions before she heads off for an Uber shift, or all her other jobs—cat sitting, plant watering, dropping off the dry cleaning for the old lady on the first floor. I want my summer, my life back. I’m supposed to give that up? And why does Lidia call it her application? It’s my life. My future. How much am I supposed to give up?

“Can I see her?” My voice cracks.

“That’s what I’m working on. They have her in a facility in Pennsylvania.”

“Pennsylvania!” I can barely breathe.

“I can’t say whether that’s better or worse. My clients who go to Elizabeth, New Jersey, right next to Newark Airport, are put on a plane home.”

Home? Ammi often says, I would sooner die than step back into that country that took your father. That family that has forsaken me. Her eyes are so angry, I know not to ask more. But I wonder: Pakistan was my abu, the three of us happy, laughing over supper at night. Or skipping to school in my light blue shalwar kameez and racing the chowkidar’s son across the courtyard. It wasn’t all terrible; it was the first part of my life. But Ammi doesn’t want to hear that.

“Look, I have a call in. I’ve pulled out all the stops. If it works out, is Saturday good?”

I give her a shaky head bob. “Yes.”

She gets up, puts her arms around me, and hugs me firmly. Her hair gives off a floral scent. The door swings open again, noise buzzing around us, but she grips me harder, whispering, “I’m so sorry, Rania. So sorry.”