“This is a mistake. We’re not supposed to be here. I need to talk to the person in charge.”

“Later.” She points to two white towels and a bar of soap on a chair.

We take our toothbrushes and wash up down the hall. Then we make our way downstairs, to a room with long tables and aluminum benches, where they serve us buttered toast and scrambled eggs that taste like jiggly rubber. I keep looking for an adult I can explain our situation to, but mostly it’s kids of all ages, little ones swinging their legs off their chairs, others climbing up and down, and up again. The din of voices, most of them in Spanish.

A girl about Kamal’s age is sitting opposite us. Her sleek black hair is done into two braids, showing a round face, her eyes two dull buttons. She doesn’t say a word but stares at Kamal drinking his orange juice. “What?” he keeps asking, annoyed, but she says nothing, just keeps staring.

“She doesn’t talk,” someone says.

I turn to see a boy, about my age, slender, with a shock of dyed gold hair. He’s got on a denim jacket and hoodie, jeans with frayed holes, done just so. He’s pushed his tray away and is drawing with a pencil on a sketch pad, his wrist moving swift and sure. It’s a portrait, I realize, of the little girl.

“That’s good,” I comment.

“I know.”

Not exactly lacking in confidence, I think.

He does a few more strokes, scrutinizes it for a second, then rips the page out and hands it to the girl. “Rosa, mira.” She takes it, her eyes growing wide. A grin creeps up in her mouth. Clutching the paper to her chest, she twists off the bench and runs off. He swivels to face us. “I make her one every day.” He sizes us both up. “You guys are new.”

“Yes.” I put my hand on my brother’s head. “I don’t think we’re staying, though. It’s just some kind of mix-up.”

He gives me a rueful look and starts laughing. “Yeah, right.”

“You don’t believe me?”

“I believe you. Don’t get so mad.”

“I’m not mad. I just have to find out who to talk to.” I stand, scanning the noisy room.

“Good luck,” he calls as I unwind from the bench.

I go from adult to adult, but they all shake their heads. “We’re just aides,” they say. No one seems to have any information. Back at the table I can see the boy is trying not to smirk. “Go ahead, say it. I was wrong,” I say.

“You just have to be patient.”

“I don’t have time,” I grumble.