For the next week we keep to our routines: He does his restaurant work; I help out at the motel. We steer around each other in the small room. Sometimes in the morning when I’m gathering my clothes, I see Carlos sneak a glance at me. I slam the bathroom door. Or he reaches to brush aside my hair, then yanks his hand back. The worst part is the only person I want to confide in is Fatima, but she still hasn’t answered my texts, which kills me. Her shells stay tucked in my bag. At least Bill, the immigration guy, hasn’t returned.

I push myself to swim all the time. Paciencia. Waiting. I go farther out into the pond toward those patches of dark green, slashing the water with my arms, furious at him, at us, at all I can’t change.

On Saturdays, after Carlos’s shift, we pile into the car and drive to Provincetown where Carlos draws tourists in the little alley. Kamal and I climb Pilgrim Monument, ticking off the names of the early settlements—Springfield, Hartford, Providence—carved into its walls. Marge adores Carlos, tells him he’s welcome to come other days too. I think about how welcoming everyone here has been—Doris and Jeff, the manager of the restaurant. Another America, not the one that sent Ammi down the stairwell of our building that night; not the one on the news.

We both spoil Kamal. We play miniature golf. We buy him cheap toys that break after a day. A Styrofoam kickboard that he uses—all the way to the floating dock. “Hermanito, come to me!” Carlos calls from the water. Kamal jumps right into his arms, thrashing his way to shore. This is the part that makes me happy; we’re giving him a childhood. The one that was snatched from us.

At the library, Kamal and I sit at a table and I spread out several postcards. “What do you think Ammi wants to hear?” I ask.

“That I’m swimming!”

“Good.”

“I’m not afraid of sharks.”

“Why don’t you draw that?” Then I add, “But only that.” I have to be careful because I don’t want him to write about Carlos or the Cape. He clutches a pen and soon he’s absorbed in doing his letters and making a drawing, the tip of his tongue showing from concentrating so hard.

Missing you, Ammi.

Having a good summer, Ammi.

Can’t wait until we see you, Ammi.

We’ll be back soon, Ammi.

We live on lies the same way we live on the tufts of summer clouds and taffy and ice cream down at the dock. I never knew lying could taste so good. Disappeared. I think about that word, writing in my notebook.