The front door opened, dropping light onto the wide wooden porch. There was Mayra, pajama-clad in the doorway, waving to me the way she used to—quick and close to the chest. She might judge me for drinking burnt gas station coffee, so I left it in the cupholder to stink up the car. I grabbed my bag and rushed to meet her. My arms lifted of their own accord, and I found myself wrapped around her. “Ingrid,” she said, hugging back. “You made it.” “I’m sorry,” I said, pulling away. “I guess I missed you.”
