Page 68 of Born for Starlight

"Do you speak English?"

"A little. Slow, please."

"Thank you. I'm calling about a patient. A little girl named Luzia."

"Family name?"

I opened my mouth. Nothing came out.

I didn't know it. I'd watched the orphanage video eleven times. I'd carried that little face across an ocean, and I'd never once asked for her last name. Some champion of children I was turning out to be.

"I don't know her family name," I admitted. "She's seven. The sisters from Casa Semente brought her in about two weeks ago. A lung infection."

Keys clicked. The pause stretched.

"No. There is no patient Luzia in this hospital."

The words hit me in the chest. No. Wrong. She had to be there.

"That's not possible. Please check again. Luzia. Seven, maybe eight years old. From Casa Semente."

More keys. "I check. There is no Luzia here."

Breathe, Angelica. Think.

"Can I ask you something else? Did a man call the hospital today, asking about her? An American?"

"Today? No."

"Are you sure? Maybe he spoke to someone else at the desk."

She gave a short laugh with zero humor in it. "There is no someone else, senhora. Fernanda called in sick. I am alone at this desk since this morning, seven, me and this telephone only. No man called about any Luzia."

That made two lies.

He told me he'd called while I was in the bath. He described the runaround they gave him. He gave me details, substance, a whole performance over lunch, and every word of it was invented.

I gripped the phone tighter. Then I got an idea.

"One more favor. Please. Could you check your records, going back two weeks? A girl named Luzia, seven or eight years old, admitted from Casa Semente."

"Senhora, I am very busy, I don't have time to⁠—"

I put the tears in my voice. Here's the scary part. I didn't have to reach for them. They showed up on their own the second I opened the door to them. "Please. I'm calling for the sisters. They're worried sick. She's an orphan. There's nobody else in the world to ask about her. Please, can you please just look?"

A long breath came down the line. "Wait, please."

Hold music, tinny and bright. I got up. I paced to the window, back to the bed, back to the window.

The line clicked. "I found her. Luzia dos Santos. Admitted two weeks ago, yes. Discharged four days ago."

"Discharged?"

"Recovered, it says here. Discharged."

Recovered. Two weeks of fevers that went away and came back, and then, poof, all better, right before I got to this country?

What the hell?