When the officer explains the situation, she rolls her eyes, as if to say, You guys are always a pain. I’ve heard her complain to Maria Auntie that they shouldn’t get involved with other people’s problems.

There’s a footfall behind me. Turning, I see Kamal in his rumpled pajamas, rubbing his eyes. “Ammi?” he mumbles.

My mother looks crushed. Everything she does is to never let Kamal know this could happen. Me, I’m always supposed to go along with her, even if it makes no sense.

“Take him back in,” the walkie-talkie woman says to Ammi, firm.

“May I say goodbye?”

The woman sighs. “This isn’t a good idea.”

My whole body clenches. Every part of me wants to scream: Then don’t take my mother.

Ammi kneels down. She’s in slacks and a crisp shirt, as if for an office, even though she’s been driving all night for Uber. Kamal stretches his thin arms around her neck and nestles in her hair. She’s murmuring to him calmly. I’m furious—and scared. Then Ammi wipes her eyes.

“Ma’am?”

“Just a minute.”

“Ma’am, don’t make this harder.”

She stands. She puts something in my palm—cool and bumpy—it’s her keys, to the car, to everything else. She draws me close. I smell sandalwood and a trace of coconut oil in her hair, the stuff that I use for my unruly waves. My mother is so young, it’s as if we’re sisters, not mother and daughter. “You can drive,” she whispers. “Remember that.”

True. Ammi made sure I took driver’s ed, even though I use buses and the subway everywhere. She never lets me drive the car. But she’s always ready to flee. We keep a suitcase packed with a set of overnight clothes and toothbrushes in the bottom of our closet; we never buy too much for the apartment—one wok, one tawa pan, silverware for four, so we always have to wash our forks and knives after eating. The story of our life, for so long.

But this time, it’s not the three of us, packed up, sprung and ready to go. Just her. I call out, “Wait! It’s a mistake!”

Ammi pulls back. Her face has gone hard. “Not now, Rania.”

I whimper.

“In the morning, call Lidia. She knows what to do.” That’s our lawyer.

My mother and I stare at each other. A staticky voice comes through the walkie-talkie. “We need you down here. Another group. A van.”

“Roger that,” the woman says. “I’ve got some collateral here too.”

Collateral.

Ammi.

The woman gestures to Lucia, who grudgingly comes and stands by our door. “You’re over eighteen?”

Lucia looks defiant. “Just turned the big twenty.”

“Can I see ID?”