Eleven hours later, my phone lit up with my mother’s name, and I let it ring twice before answering. Behind her voice I could hear the airport crowd and my father arguing with a driver in a gray suit, who kept shaking his head. “Reservation cancelled by the account holder, sir,” he repeated. “Your transfer, too.” I heard Daria’s gum stop cracking.

“Alina, there must be a mistake,” my mother whispered. “We have nowhere to sleep.” Her voice cracked on the last word. I looked at the folder on my coffee table, the one with all three names printed on every page. “There is no mistake, Mama,” I said gently. “But there is something about this trip you never knew, and you should sit down before I explain.”