Later that night she walked through the city to the house where she’d been raised, a one-story home in a neighborhood by the airport. The air was frigid. Stars glimmered above the street. Beatriz stood in the dark out at the chain-link fence by the sidewalk, gripping the straps of her backpack, watching her family through the windows. Everybody was gathered in the living room. Rafael, her father, sitting on the couch in an oxford shirt and a wind-up wristwatch. Ana, her mother, sitting on the couch in tortoiseshell eyeglasses and a silk blouse. Her sister Maria, the second oldest, the athlete, slumped on a beanbag in a cardigan. Her sister Sofia, the third oldest, the musician, flopped across a beanbag in a turtleneck. Her sister Gabriela, the youngest, the clown, lounging on the carpeting in some baby-blue pajamas with her feet kicking in the air. All holding plastic bowls, munching popcorn together in the glow of the television. Beyond the couch, an empty space in the seat of the leather armchair that had always been her place. A dog barked nearby, and then again there was silence. Beatriz stood out there in the dark until she was so cold that she was trembling. Then she walked to a payphone.