She peppers me with more annoying questions, but I’m still starving, so I mumble answers as I take another half sandwich. Her look is sharp, assessing. When I fumble my way to Ammi’s situation—delicately mentioning we’re having issues with immigration—her nod grows more vigorous. “Oh yes. We’d heard Sadia had some trouble. Things did not go as planned.”

“What do you mean?” The sandwich turns dry in my mouth.

“The hearing? Is that what they call it?” Her look now is haughty.

“I guess.”

“It must have been such a disappointment. I don’t know much about these matters. We came a while ago. My husband’s position…I’m sure you’ve heard. He’s head of pulmonary medicine at Hackensack.”

I swallow hard. I didn’t even know Hema Auntie existed before yesterday. But there’s something about her that reminds me of Ammi—an air of we are important.

“Salim Uncle?” I prompt.

She gets up, rummaging in a desk drawer, and lifts out a small bundle bound with a rubber band. “I don’t have a phone number, but I do have this mail for him. It just came a few weeks ago, even though he hasn’t been here for quite a while. I’ve been meaning to send it off.” She plucks off a sticky note. “That’s his address.”

I look down at an address in Stamford. My heart starts to quicken. “He’s still there?”

“I believe so. He had a position with RBS. Last I heard there were some problems…” Sitting down again, she scrapes her chair closer. Her eyes are a gray green. Her hands are on mine, ringed fingers glinting. “If you like, I could contact your family. I’m sure they’d be happy to be of help—”

“No!” Then, remembering my manners, I say, “Thank you so much, Auntie. You’ve been very kind. I should get back to my brother.” I stand, point to the bundle. “Can I take this?”

Her smile drops. “Yes, of course.” Her voice is cold.

I hurry down the steps, my bag banging at my hip, relieved to get out of there. I can’t explain it: something felt wrong, like a trap. Those gray-green eyes, judging. The way my throat closed shut.

My uncle, I think, dropping the packet of mail on the passenger seat. I would find my uncle. And make everything right.

Chapter Seven

“It was weird,” I tell Fatima two hours later. On my way back from New Jersey, I stopped at her house in Bay Ridge, and we’re sitting on her stoop. Occasionally one of her little brothers’ heads pop into the front bay window—they’re bouncing on the sofa. “I felt Mona and Hema Auntie gave me this whole chase. Just to, like, check me out.” I shudder. “Ugh. I hated them.”

“Families are weird. Mine is completely nuts.”

“These people aren’t even family.”