She used to have dreams about the park. It was a small green perfect square, and she’d only have once chance each day to see it: between cars and the pillars of a fading hotel, out the window on her bus ride. One splash of ripe grass and then it’d be gone.

Aisha promised herself the day Jordan left she’d make her way there. She’d sit with her book on a bench, touch the grass with bare feet, make it her refuge.

Now, today, she’s there. And it turns out to be a fancy driveway for the office park next door.