Mrs. Flannery stares at me blankly. “So she’s not home yet?”

I can see Kamal’s face crumple. Orange from his Popsicle drips down his wrist.

“Good day, Mrs. Flannery,” I say, and pull Kamal through the door.

Upstairs I usher Kamal into the apartment and then I march down the hall and press Maria Auntie’s buzzer, hard. Why can’t they help us? Be our standby guardians? Why does my life have to be ruined because of screwup Lucia?

The door swings open. It’s Lucia. She looks exhausted and is wearing an apron spattered with tomato sauce. I remember that Maria Auntie is making her work all the time since they have to pay for a lawyer. “Yeah?” she asks.

“Forget it.” I turn away.

Dinner is rushed: I overcook the chunks of meat, make soggy rice, bang the plates on the table. It’s too much: the talk with Mona, the meeting with Hema Auntie. The meeting with Lidia. And my mother’s call. Maria Auntie drops by to give us two yogurt containers filled with soup. She hands them to me like a peace offering. I stand there stiff, not sure what to say.

“Rania, I am so sorry. But you understand. When your mother first came to me, I said of course. But now, with Lucia’s troubles…”

I see how hard it is for her. “It’s okay, really.” Though it isn’t.

“I hear you have an uncle!” she says brightly. “Oh! I forgot the flan. I’ll have Lucia drop it off. I have to leave for my shift.”

“Flan!” Kamal shouts. Flan always makes Kamal happy—he says it’s like swallowing down sunshine.

She gives me a hug. “I’m so sorry,” she says, smoothing a palm on my hair.

Exhausted, I flop down on the sofa, to think. On Saturday I can drive up to Stamford. Maybe Kamal can hang with Amir. I still can’t believe this is happening to us. I’ve read all the headlines and watched the news about the awful stuff at the border. One evening we were cooking together with the TV on, when Ammi turned to me and said, “Just so you’re clear: We’re not undocumented, Rania. We are asylum seekers. There’s a difference.”

I remember being outraged at the time. “But what about those other families?”

She tilted up her chin, stared straight ahead. “It’s a waiting game. That’s all.”

I wonder, after what Lidia told me about her hearing, if that is true? Are we so different?

Just as I’m about to check on Kamal, there’s a soft knock on the door. Then firmer. I figure it’s Lucia with the flan. But when I swing open the door, a woman I don’t know is standing there. Behind her a man, shifting on his feet.

“Rania Hasan?” When I nod, she offers a smile. “May I come in, dear?”