Carlos has woken before us, showing up with a cardboard tray of juice and doughnuts. “Let’s go to a museum,” he says. “There are really good ones in Boston.”

Kamal groans into his pillow.

“This is an educational vacation, silly,” I say, and teasingly flick a finger on his nose.

My phone has a cache of new messages—everything I’ve been avoiding. Lidia is frantic. “You’re with your uncle? You need to get in touch ASAP. What about the form?” Then there’s one from Ammi, who sounds strangely heartened. “That’s my girl,” she says, laughing. “Smarter than those shelter people. I told Lidia not to worry. You would figure out what to do.” The last is from Fatima. “Please, Rania, tell me what’s going on. I’m scared.”

This cuts me, sharp. I text her: Promise. Will call soon. Will explain.

She texts back a sad-face emoji.

I’ve never gone so long without speaking to my best friend. But it’s different now. I think of our T-shirts, the road making everything smaller and smaller until it’s only a dot. That’s what I want: to disappear, to turn it into freedom. I shut the phone off. We’ll use Carlos’s phone to navigate. And we’ll just keep going, not looking back.

The Museum of Fine Arts in Boston is beautiful, with a huge atrium and different galleries branching off. Kamal is glum at first—he’d hoped we’d do Legoland—but I let him use my phone for a game and even interest him in a painting or two.

Carlos is the one to lead. He’s clear on exactly what he wants to see. We wind up in front of a painting called Dos Mujeres (Salvadora y Herminia). It’s of two women, one in the front and the other just behind her, like two playing cards. Their hair is jet-black, pulled back sleekly with a part in the middle, their eyebrows thick brushes. The woman in the front has on a blue dress with a double-frill white yoke, gold hoops in her ears. Behind them is an olive-toned forest of leaves and fruit and butterflies. But the women are the most colorful things in the painting, their faces strong, their eyes gazing firmly. It makes me think of Ammi, her strength, and for an instant, I feel a wisp of sadness.

Then I realize this might be a mother and daughter. The woman in back wearing the yellow dress has an older face. It’s really the daughter who’s more vivid, her lips pink, her eyes hard black.

I am behind you always, Ammi used to say, especially when she was working extra Uber shifts and left us our dinner under damp towels. Even when I can’t be.

Maybe I don’t want Ammi behind me.