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“I am feeling kind of—managed.”

I am feeling as though I should go back to my own time and my sweet, not-crabby husband and stop interfering. Maybe things will fall into place without my assistance? “Understood. Let’s stop and have lunch somewhere, like you said before. If I vanish, please give my clothing to my younger self tomorrow.”

Zach doesn’t look at me. It’s starting to snow and we watch the tiny flecks of ice hit the windshield aggressively, with a hissing sound, and melt within moments of touching the glass. “So, tomorrow. The Alba I’m seeing tomorrow, does she know everything you know?”

“About you? No. She knows she can trust you. I try not to spoil her surprises. Or yours.”

“Thanks. Can I trust you?”

I consider. “Yes and no. I can’t always trust me.”

“Fair enough.” Zach turns on the ignition and the heater. The windshield wipers scrape arcs of clarity through the slush. “All right.” He pulls out into traffic and we don’t say another word until we’re at the Gomolinskis’ house on Estes. I point it out to Zach and he says, “That one? It seems kind of modest, considering.”

“They won’t live there much longer; they’re moving deeper into the 50th Ward because of future redistricting. In a few months they’ll be moving to an elaborate bungalow near Indian Boundary Park with five bedrooms. It’ll still be a fixer-upper, though. They aren’t fancy. They don’t care about stuff, they care about human beings.” I hope Zach understands what I don’t want to say out loud: These are your people. I am giving you a family. I offer him my hand and we sit together, motionless, holding hands and watching the windows steam up.

“Okay,” Zach says. “I guess I’m ready.” We walk quickly up the block. I hope that no one is watching.

We ring the doorbell. Zach glances around nervously. I look up, into the security camera, and smile. Charisse opens the door and says, “We’ve been expecting you all week. Let me take your coats.” She gives me a hug and shakes hands with Zach as I introduce them to each other. “Gomez is in the kitchen. Do you want some lunch? We’re having toasted cheese sandwiches.” I’m struck by how much younger this Charisse looks than her present-day self, even though this is only seven years ago; she’s plumper, less gray, less somber. Her black hair is cut into a Louise Brooks–style bob and she’s wearing a black-and-pink polka-dotted vintage house dress. Charisse is petite, like her daughter, but warmer, looser than Rosa. Gomez calls Charisse the brains of their family; she is also the heart, the one who tends to us all.

“Lunch sounds great,” I say. Zach has gone quiet again. Charisse and Gomez’s place is full of mismatched, cat-clawed, dusty, kitschy, colorful, puzzling, garish, junky furniture and random objects. Charisse loves to shop at garage sales and thrift stores. Nothing is “worth” anything, but it adds up to a warm, dense nest. The Gomolinskis have cheerfully preserved their kids’ crayon scribbles on walls, and the fridge is covered in decades-old kid art and report cards full of As.

I lead Zach into the kitchen. Gomez is using a salad spinner so enthusiastically that when he lets go of it, it nearly jumps off the countertop. He’s wearing khakis, a black T-shirt and a pink apron patterned with little hot dogs. His gray-blond hair, what’s left of it, is slicked back as though he’s just washed it and tied into a ponytail. I remember that he grew this beard during the first coronavirus lockdown and then refused to shave it even though Charisse and all his kids teased him about his newfound resemblance to the Big Lebowski. He’ll hold out until the aldermanic election next year. My dad always said that Gomez doesn’t mind vexing his nearest and dearest, but he tries to impress his voters.

Gomez says, “Alba, Zach, welcome. Thanks for helping out the other night. We were just talking to Caralora. Everything is fine at their end. Have you had any problems?”

Zach raises his eyebrows at Gomez’s directness. “Um, no. I don’t think so. I haven’t heard from anyone, so that could be good or bad.”

“Alba, when are you coming from?” Charisse asks. She walks into the kitchen holding some file folders, which she plops onto the table next to her place. She begins to set the table for the four of us, so I deduce that Max, Joe and Rosa aren’t here.

“July 2029,” I tell her.

“How are we doing in 2029? Did we win? Or are we all dead?” Charisse is placing silverware just so, carefully not looking at me, because she knows I don’t like these pleas for reassurance. Gomez gives me a what can ya do with her eye roll.

“Tell you what,” I reply, “I’ll trade you. Tell me where Nadia is right now, and I’ll answer a few questions about my present, if I can.”

Gomez clears his throat and says, “Why don’t you two go ahead and sit down.” He nods at the table. Zach pulls out my chair and I sit, feeling prim. Gomez and Charisse bustle around the kitchen; he tosses salad and she pops a pan full of open-faced cheese on toast into the broiler. Zach and I wait obediently, as though we’re in a restaurant. (When was I last in a restaurant? It must have been a few years ago now? Our whole social life revolves around parties in friends’ houses and illegal raves. So many of the restaurants I loved have closed.) The kitchen timer bings and we all jump and then smile at our own nervousness. Gomez says “Ta da” when he puts our plates in front of us.

Zach says, “I love grilled cheese sandwiches. My mom used to put tomato slices over the cheese. I haven’t had one of these in ages.”

Charisse asks Zach where he’s from, and she and Gomez exchange concerned looks when he tells them Tulsa. “Is your family okay?” she asks.

Zach looks startled until he realizes she means are they healthy and not are they crazy. “Yeah, as far as I know they’re all fine. It’s been a while since we’ve checked in on each other.”

Gomez lets Charisse do all the talking. Every now and then he’ll say something pleasant, just so his silence isn’t ominous. He’s sitting across from Zach, considering him. It’s making Zach more nervous, even though Charisse is trying to put him at ease by asking him about books he’s read and favorite foods and what he thinks about Chicago’s various neighborhoods, the lake, the weather. Zach watches them with seeming calm, but his leg is jittering next to mine. Gomez clears the table and Charisse makes coffee. They set mugs and cookies in front of us and sit down again. There’s an uncomfortable pause.

“So, Zach,” Gomez says, “we’ve made some inquiries about you and we’ve come up blank.” Gomez reaches over his shoulder to the bookshelf behind him, grabs his reading glasses, puts them on askew. He’s still wearing the hot dog–patterned apron and looks very mad professor. “No one we know can vouch for you. Except Alba, of course.”

Zach replies, “We don’t move in the same circles. You’ll have to take Alba’s word that I’m okay.”

Gomez says, “Alba?” Charisse hands me one of the file folders that have been sitting next to her plate all through lunch. I flip it open, holding it so Zach can’t see the contents. It’s just a piece of yellow lined paper that says, ??? Charisse hands me a pen. I write: Red Rose Black Fist Collective, Tulsa. Purcell is not his real name. I am married to him. Can he stay with you? He is living in his car. I close the file and hand it to Gomez. He opens it, squints at what I’ve written, takes off his glasses, smiles enigmatically, closes the file and hands it to Charisse. She opens it, reads it and says, “No shit? Seriously, Alba, you know we can’t check any of that.” Zach looks alarmed.

“I know, but have I ever steered you wrong?” They both start to answer at once and I say, “Never mind.”

Gomez says to Zach, “What can you do? We have jobs in the ward office, and we have—other jobs. What skills do you have?”

Zach clears his throat. “I’ve been organizing nonviolent direct actions; not that many, I’m still learning, but I’ve worked on a few things, mostly protests and deplatforming.”

Charisse says, “Rosa does most of that for us. We’re more into direct service around here.”