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sculling silently under the water, her eyes closed against the beating sun, while I stuck my feet in the sand holes where it was shallow and then reached down and pulled up whatever I could grab hold of, sorting the silt and quartz crystals and rocks in my palm and saving some to take home.
    Later in the day, when the sun was dimming, we sat up to our waists in the water and watched the swallows fly from their nests in the dunes and the dragonflies bat their wings overhead. A light breeze sent the sand at the top of the mounds swirling in the air.
    “This was nice,” I told my mother, and I meant it. We didn’t often spend time together like that. The majority of our days were about more pedestrian concerns—getting dinner on the table, finishing homework, fixing the thermostat, that sort of thing.
    “You liked it?”
    “I liked it.”
    She smiled and rubbed her eyes and looked out at the water. “You know, there are a million places in the world. But you only need to find one that makes you happy. As long as you have one, that’s enough.”
    At the time, I thought she was talking about being there, but now I wonder whether she was thinking about Panama instead.

Three
    Absorption
    E arly the next morning I go looking for breakfast in the hotel bar. I spent nearly the entire night awake, curled up on the bed, alternately thinking of what I would do when the sun came up and reading the guidebook and Principles of Geology. By the time I finally fell asleep on top of the sheets, the air-conditioning grumbling like a bad stomachache, it was almost four a.m.
    Before bed, I called my mother. I figured out when I should have landed in Washington—three hours after I had actually landed in Panama—and dialed her at home. She sounded relieved to hear from me and glad to know that I had made it to my destination in one piece, no problems. She asked how the flight had been, and when I told her I just read and that they played a movie the whole way, she said that wasn’t fair, that they didn’t show movies on airplanes the last time she flew. She was making soup when I called. Lucy was watching television. “She watches crap,” my mother said. “Right now she’s watching an infomercial for gloves that are textured so they can peel potatoes.” I told her I would call her again tomorrow. “You’re not going to call me every day, are you?”
    “Why not?”
    “It’s a lot of money.”
    “I’m just using my cell phone. Until I run out of minutes, it’s not costing us anything extra.”
    “Well, you don’t usually call me every day from school.”
    “Maybe not every single day, but I get pretty close.”
    “Mira, you already left me with a babysitter.”
    “She’s not a—”
    “She is. And that’s fine. But you don’t need to call me and check up on me every day, too. I can still take care of myself, you know.”
    “I’m still going to call you tomorrow.”
    “If you must.”
    In the bar, the tables are empty, with menus propped up between the salt and pepper shakers. Along the counter an assortment of juices and coffee are lined up as though the employees are expecting a crowd. I take a seat at one of the tables, and a burly man with a thick mustache and fingers stout as sausages comes to take my order: a hard-boiled egg and two fried corn cakes—they’re called tortillas on the menu—with a Panamanian white cheese. He wipes his hands on a white towel threaded through one of his belt loops and tells me he’ll be back with my food in a minute.
    When he leaves, I pour myself a cup of coffee from the silver urn on the bartop. It’s so strong, even after milk and three sugar packets, that I manage to take only small sips, and even then, I struggle to get it down. Halfway through the cup, a commotion erupts in the lobby behind me.
    “Lady didn’t pay me!” I hear a voice yell in Spanish.
    “I know. But that is the risk of this job. You know that. You have to calm down,” says another voice.
    “ Oye,