Monica leaned across the small table.

“You don’t owe anyone an apology for protecting your own name, Iris.”

We walked back to Monica’s house as the damp winter dusk settled over the quiet street.

By eight o’clock, the oil radiator in Monica’s living room was humming softly against the baseboard.

My phone sat on the square glass coffee table between us, its screen lighting up again and again in the dark room.

The lock screen showed seventeen missed calls and thirty-two text messages from my mother and sister.