“Please, Lidia. Just give me a little time. To find out more. About my uncle, about my—” I want to say family, but I bite the word off. I’m not sure what I’m looking for—answers, safety, a way to get my mother out of that gray detention center in Pennsylvania.

Another muddled sound as she moves the phone. “We can’t be having this conversation, okay? I can’t know anything. Not where you are. Not where you’re going.”

I swallow. “Okay.” My voice has shrunk small.

“I’ll have to tell your mother—”

“Wait. Please. Not yet.”

A long silence. “One day,” she says. “I’ll give you one day.” Then she clicks off.

When I return to the car, I try to put on a brave face. My whole body feels as if I’ve been rubbed hard with a washcloth; I am tingling, afraid. I’ve never done anything like this before. Maybe this is what my father used to feel, going on his assignments, chasing down a lead, a dangerous interview: dizzy-scared, but exhilarated too.

The street where Salim Uncle lives is sorry-looking: small boxy houses with worn-down metal fences. We pull up to a pale-green home with concrete steps, a tricycle turned on its side on the front lawn. A clothesline in the back, an orange shalwar fluttering in the breeze like a bright flag. The right place, I think.

Again I tell Carlos to wait with Kamal in the car, and make my way up the path and press the bell. When the door swings open, I’m facing a heavyset man who vaguely resembles Ammi, with thicker features. “May I help you?” he asks.

“I’m Rania,” I blurt out, then add, “Your niece.”

What was I thinking? That there would be bolts of lightning? A happy rainbow arcing over the backyard? Instead Salim Uncle looks confused. “Niece?” he repeats.

“Sadia’s daughter. I…got your address from Hema Auntie. She gave me the old place and—”

“You are Rania?” he interrupts. “I haven’t seen you since—” He puts a palm out to show a little child. I remember what Ammi said, He is the soft-hearted one, and for a brief moment I imagine a jolly man ready to scoop us up in his burly arms. Then he squints at Carlos, who’s leaning against the hood, and Kamal, staring through the open window. “Who is this?”

I swallow. “That’s Kamal. Your nephew.”

“Nephew,” he repeats softly.

“And…a friend.”

Poor Salim Uncle! He looks befuddled, as if he’s always in this disheveled state: wavy, unkempt hair, a wrinkled shirt over khaki pants, bare feet. I can see he’s struggling to make sense of me, of this moment. He squints. “Your mother, where is she?”