A warm gust churned the air. She smelled her mother’s kitchen in the bay leaves sweating in the overhanging branches and in the sage and fennel crushed by her car. She then saw herself at the dining table a month earlier, hunched over her laptop, heart pounding, typing a San Francisco address, and then later, hands shaking as she slid a letter into the corner mailbox. Dear Mr. Special Agent in Charge: The president of Surveillance and Targeting Technologies of San Jose, California, is engaged in a massive-

Which of them knew? Which of those she saw in her mind’s eye just a mile away, starting charcoal, setting up volleyball nets, pinning down the corners of tablecloths with ketchup and mustard bottles. Those men tossing footballs and glancing over at the women in little outfits they’d never worn to the office. The women trying not to giggle at white nerd-legs stuck into brown socks and clearance-rack Nikes or stare too long at the Cancun-bronzed chests of the men from the loading dock.

Which of them knew? A chill vibrated through her body. Which of them knew that she knew?

The lenses of her eyes changed focus from the thistles and nettles beyond the fractured windshield to the pale green Tupperware lying upside-down on the dashboard, her potato salad still sealed inside. Wasted. Even back home in Lugansk among the collapsed coal mines, even in the worst of times, no one wiped off blood to eat the food of the dead. It would be- What did Father Roman say? It would be like eating the bread of the Eucharist without the sacrament.

Katie closed her eyes, her shallow breath once again infused with bay and sage and fennel-then a wrenching vertigo, as if she’d been tossed from a sailboat twisting in a hurricane. My name…I need…to know…my name.

She wanted to smile when it finally reached out to her from the whirlwind… Ekaterina. But there wasn’t time.