A squawk from the hospital intercom jolted Ally back to the present. If only she could go back in time. She’d grab her five-year-old self by the shoulders and give her a good shake until she gave up the foolish suspicion that an impostor had taken her mother’s place. She’d send her downstairs toot sweet. Then finally, Ally and her mother would hold hands, whisper words of comfort, like the Iraqi women on the far side of the waiting room.

For the millionth time, Ally wished she’d had more courage, more loyalty. What had her mother wanted to tell her? Was it precious advice for the daughter she’d never see grow up? Was there a secret she wanted to share? The shameful hole in Ally’s chest expanded. Her mother had deserved so much better from her.

A door opened, and a middle-aged woman in a baby-blue pantsuit and head scarf emerged from the office behind the counter. Ally blinked back a tear. She straightened up, hoping her sweaty palms hadn’t left an imprint of the precious package of photographs.

“My name is Mrs. al-Deeb.” The woman in the pantsuit eyed Ally warily. “My clerk said you are looking for one of our nurses. Is there some problem?”

“No, no problem at all. Quite the opposite.” Ally smiled in what she hoped was a reassuring manner and explained that she was writing a book about nursing history. Most Iraqis held writers and scholars in high esteem. It had been that way for over fifteen hundred years, when Baghdadi caliphs built Bayt al-Hikma, the House of Wisdom, to record the works of the world’s best philosophers, scientists, and poets. Ally hoped the caliphs’ love of knowledge still ran in Mrs. al-Deeb’s blood.

“From what I’ve learned,” said Ally, “the late sixties and early seventies was a wonderful period in Baghdad.”

“Ah, the golden years.” Mrs. al-Deeb’s dark eyes glazed over with a nostalgic haze that Ally had quickly come to recognize. “You’re right, those were glorious times.”

“And the Iraqi health system was the best in the Middle East back then.” Ally leaned a little closer. “At least that’s what I’ve been told.”

Mrs. al-Deeb beamed with pride. Ally felt a stab of remorse for manipulating her emotions, but soon Mrs. al-Deeb was regaling her with stories of a British nurse called Daphne who sang opera like Maria Callas and staged late-night limbo competitions in the hospital cafeteria.

“So, please, tell me, dear,” said Mrs. al-Deeb, “who is the woman you’re looking for?”

Ally’s pulse quickened. She slid a few photos across the counter.

“Do you recognize any of these nurses? Perhaps someone in the background?”