I couldn’t pretend to not be relieved. “Oh, Zola,” I sighed, and untangled myself from her python arms to put one hand on her head to keep her still so I could see her face, her beautiful hair braided and beaded the way it was when I first met her, the way she liked it best. There is a pervasive lie born of the corporatization of adoption that insists birth parents are bad, adoptive parents are good, kids get “bad” traits genetically and learn “good” behaviors from adoptive parents. And worse, the disgusting additional lie that kids of color are better off removed from their families and stuck with white foster parents who can’t keep track of one goddamn swim lesson. It’s all bullshit. According to Zola, her mom occasionally worked nights while Zola slept; someone reported it. But Zola felt safe and loved at home; she believed she belonged with her mom. I believed Zola. I took her hands in mine.

“That is…I’m so happy. Are you?”

“Yes!” she said, and looked up and around the treetops. “Is this where you live now?”

“I wish,” I said. “But I get to work here. I’m in a house here on the island.”

“Is it good?”

“So far.”

“Good.” She noticed Sean. “Who’s this?” She didn’t wait for me to answer. “I’m Zola,” she announced, taking her hands from mine and extending one to firmly shake Sean’s.

“Sean,” he said. “I’m a friend of Muiriel’s.”

“Oh, okay.” Zola nodded. “So am I.”

Sean smiled at me, his dark eyes looking right at me, and I slyly held the table to steady myself again.

“Well, who do we have here?” Natan’s voice shattered the moment, and he strode toward us, bun high and tight, and carrying—oh God, no—a guitar.

Please, Mother Earth, open a hole to swallow him and that guitar. Please. I beg of you.

Zola watched Natan walking and backed near me as he knelt down before her. I stood behind her and instinctively put my arms around her. “Hello there,” he said in a tone most people save for really old people and puppies. “Are you going to hike with us today?”

Zola nodded.

“Fantastic!” he said. “You go, girl!” He held out his closed hand to her in a cringe-inducing attempt at a fist bump.

Zola frowned at Natan’s fist, then leaned forward and spoke into it as if it held a microphone. “Is this thing on?”

Natan’s smile was frozen and confused.

Sean’s bloomed even more bright and beautiful. “Zola,” he said, “you might be my new favorite person in the world right now. Maybe ever.”

Zola grinned and looked up at me. “Do I get to be with you? In your group?”

“I’ll see what I can do.”