LÍDIA
Before sunrise, phones are supposed to mean emergencies.
In our house, they usually mean Nikolina.
I wake when my mother says my sister’s name in the hallway. Not loudly. Mom never needs to say it loudly. That name has been part of our family longer than I have.
I leave my room and follow the light coming from my parents’ bedroom. Dad stands beside the bed in a T-shirt and pajama pants, one hand braced against the nightstand. Mom sits with her phone pressed to her ear.
Neither of them sees me.
“Send me a photograph of the ring,” Mom says. “And the police report confirming Jack’s identity.”
There is a pause.
“No, don’t ask her to travel anywhere. We’ll come to Spain.”
Dad turns at those words and finds me in the doorway.
His face tells me this is not another stranger asking
