Heat. Real heat, the kind that comes from polished vents in marble walls, not the faint warmth that leaked from subway grates or the residual warmth of a bus station bathroom that turned cold the moment the ventilation cycled. She stood in it and breathed.
Sofia pressed against her side. “Mama. Where are we?”
“We’re going to ask for help,” Clara said.
She had been aware, even before she opened her eyes, of the attention. She was practiced at reading the quality of attention spaces directed at her in recent weeks, the way people in lobbies and waiting areas performed not-looking, which was itself a kind of looking. She had learned to move through it with a particular composure, not the confidence of someone who belonged but the composure of someone who had decided to proceed regardless.
A security guard approached. Tall, professional, his name tag reading Derrick. He was polite, the way people in his position are trained to be polite, which is to say firmly.
