I stomped back to my room, still confused. Was Abu gone or not gone? Every time I thought about him, I felt a tingling on my skin. I thought of the dusty corner under my bed or that space under the bathroom sink. I was always losing things—an old barrette, a doll—and Abu would help me search in those places, seizing my lost item and declaring, “See! It’s un-disappeared!”

Now I had to search all by myself. I found my notebook with the sparkly cover under my bed and a novel my mother had given me in my closet. I shoved them both in my bag. I figured Ammi would run back for anything I forgot. Ammi thought of everything.

Lucky. My parents have always taught me to pay attention to words. Lucky, lucky girl is what my mother called me when my new gold ear stud fell out, and we found it in the courtyard. Abu laughed, then, propped me up on my shoulders and carried me around like a princess. Lucky again at airport security, a man inspected our passports, the two-week visas, and the letter of invitation to a conference.

“Madam, your husband?”

“He is delayed.” Her grip tightened on my arm as a warning. There had been an item in the newspaper—JOURNALIST DISAPPEARS ON ASSIGNMENT. Would the man put it together?

“Just a little holiday beforehand”—her hand brushed the top of my head—“with my daughter.”

The man’s bushy eyebrows lifted. He looked down at our passports, then at us. Was that a twitching frown of disapproval? Then he shut the passports and waved toward the entrance. “All right then, madam. Enjoy your time.”

On the flight Ammi let me watch as many movies as I wanted—she wasn’t even mad that I didn’t read. Most of the time, she was hunched under the thin blue blanket.

Lucky again, at immigration in JFK Airport. Ammi looked blearily at the woman behind the plastic divider who examined our passports. “The reason for your trip?” she asked brightly. She had very red lipstick.

“Work,” my mother lied. “A conference.”

“What kind?”

Ammi hesitated. “Communications—” Her whole body seemed to have frozen. We used to hear stories from friends about being grilled at the airport in America, coming from Pakistan. And the invitation, I knew, was folded into her purse, with Abu’s name, not hers.

I stepped forward, stood on my toes. “My ammi is going to give a talk,” I said. “And I’m here to listen. And buy sneakers.”

The woman smiled. There was a ch-chunk sound of her stamping our passports.

That’s when I knew: This is how we would get by. Luck and lies.