One of the girls woke up first.

She sat up — the one who had been holding the suitcase handle — and she did the thing children do, which is come entirely awake in about a second, and she looked straight at me because I was the only person standing still in a moving concourse.

She had my father’s jaw.

Harold Vance died in 2016 and there is a photograph of him at seven in a school blazer in my mother’s hallway in Palm Beach and I had walked past it perhaps two thousand times.

She looked at me for about three seconds with no expression at all, which is a thing that child does and still does, and then she put her hand flat on her mother’s arm.