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truck, and police and EMS were called. She is now at Brookdale Hospital in critical condition and has not regained consciousness.”
    I could not tear my eyes from the screen.
    â€œShe has been identified as Savanna Lafayette, a resident of Van Dyke houses and an honors senior at elite Brooklyn Technical High School. Sources at her employer, the Stone Avenue branch of Brooklyn Public Library, reportedly told police that local gang members have harassed her recently.”
    And they introduced her mother on a film clip.
    She spoke carefully, with tears in her eyes, and a wavering voice. “Someone knows the truth. Someone out there saw them, saw something, and knows what happened. Please, please step up and tell the truth.” She looked at the reporter, who pointed, and then she looked right at the camera.
    â€œI quote John 8:32, ‘the truth shall set you free.’ It would set all of us free, all of us who cannot have a moment of peace, not knowing what happened. All of us who know my daughter and all of us who have children we want to keep safe. And we are not the only ones who need the truth. All of you who know, really know, that you will not have peace unless you stand up for truth and justice, too. Please.” Then she turned away, weeping, and was surrounded by a comforting crowd.
    Ah, damn. I sat there for a few minutes, unable to move. That nice young woman. The girl who was going places. I remembered how Savanna talked about her mother with exasperation and respect. And I reached for the Kleenex.
    Only a few years older than my Chris, who was at that moment safely on her bed, doing her homework. Or perhaps texting with her friends in spite of my social media blackout rule on school nights.
    At that moment, I didn’t care. She could be giving herself multiple piercings or painting her bedroom black, as long as she was safe at home.
    In fact she was coming downstairs, looking for dinner. Then she saw my face and I had to tell her, as briefly as I could, while we ate.
    She was horrified of course, and wanted to know everything I knew, which was next to nothing.
    Her final words on the subject were, “Did they say they talked to her job? But that’s just like grownups. They should talk to her friends! If there’s something going on in her life, her friends would the ones to know.”
    It wasn’t until later, when I watched the story again on late news, hoping for a positive update, that I realized what else was nagging me about the broadcast. I knew Zora Lafayette, Savanna’s mother.
    It was a long time ago. She was older now and her hair was different, neatly trimmed instead of braided into brightly dyed rows. She wore an ordinary grownup pantsuit not gangsta-style fashion. But I knew I had met her. Was it in a class? The first time I was in college, or the second?

Chapter Five
    It came back to me slowly. I live in so many different worlds, I could see a face on the street and not always know if it was someone from my childhood, a class, Chris’ life, or just a frequently seen face on the street.
    But Savanna’s mother? A large class on what? Sociology and family, something like that? She stood up and fearlessly challenged a guest speaker on his research about what working mothers need. Was that it? And said she was one herself, a student with a baby, and he should be asking people like her.
    Leaving the classroom, I passed her and said, “Good for you. I know. I have a baby at home, too.”
    She wasn’t impressed by my admiration but said something like, “These men! These expert men? Sometimes they just don’t get it. Know what I’m saying?” And as she walked away, I saw on her pack a huge button with a photo on it. It was a smiling toddler, her hair tied in puffs with red ribbon.
    I was pretty sure that was it, the memory I was trying to retrieve. Or something like it. Damn. That must have been Savanna.
    What now? I didn’t really