“March. The year before you got out.” She kept both hands on the wheel although the car was parked. “You came to my apartment on a Tuesday when he was in Miami.

You had your passport and your birth certificate in a grocery bag and you said, if anything happens, this is where it is. And then we had coffee and talked about a television programme for forty minutes and you went home.”

I did not remember that. I want to be honest that I still do not, and that Dr. Sandoval says this is common and that it does not make it less mine.

“And the texts?”

“You sent them,” Hannah said. “Hundreds of them. I printed them because I thought one day somebody would need them, and I was right, and that’s the only thing I did right, and I have thought about it every single day for six years.”

The garage was quiet.