She ran outside, and she saw her sisters on the ledge when she looked up. She thought that they saw her as well, for one tossed down her ring, as a gift and a keepsake. Unfortunately, the speed that carried it had embedded the ring in the sidewalk; the silver had been flattened, becoming a part of the concrete. R blamed herself for not catching the memento, though it would have likely burned her hand, perhaps even broken the small bones of her fingers.

R’s parents only allowed me to speak to their remaining child because Mr. Weiss had contacted them and vouched for me, and because they knew of his predicament. When I agreed not to use their daughter’s name in any way, and swore I would not upset her, I was at last invited to their home. Time was passing, and I knew from my work with Hochman that after twenty-four hours a missing person was half as likely to be found, and after a week, the chances were slimmer still. We were now passing the two-week mark, a very bad portent for recovery. Hochman always said that in two weeks a man could completely refashion his history; he could walk all the way to Ohio or Iowa, change his name and his accent, disappear into another life. In the woods, footprints faded, the wind rose up to disperse shreds of clothing, flesh became grass.

I sat in an unfamiliar parlor on East Thirteenth Street. The room was close, and there were rollaway cots that had been covered with white sheets, the beds where R’s sisters had slept. A sheet also covered the mirror on the wall, as was always the case during mourning periods. R was nineteen and had been burned on her arms and legs. The skin was red and mottled now, coated with a healing gel of aloe and fish oil. She had been a pretty girl, but now she seemed ravaged, not just by the effects of the fire on her body but by the memory of all she had seen. She told me she had no wish to be awake. There were days when she slept for eighteen hours or more, doing her best to bypass time completely.

“Did I deserve this?” R asked me. Her voice was so young and plaintive I felt only a fool would dare to respond. Who was I to remark upon her life? All the same I made a comment I thought might ease our conversation. I told her no, she did not deserve her fate, and if there was a God, something I myself doubted, then he had made a terrible mistake.

She laughed hoarsely and said, “God has nothing to do with this. It’s men’s greed that made this happen.”

Her mother was watching from the hallway, to ensure I didn’t tire R or upset her by dredging up memories of March 25. I recounted what I had so far learned of Hannah Weiss. R’s eyes were lowered as I spoke. When I finished she lifted her gaze to meet mine.

“They didn’t know her completely,” R said. “I was her closest friend.”

I signaled to the mother then, and asked if she would bring us tea. She had been suspicious of me from the start and had insisted I leave my camera in the front hall. Now she looked at R with an uneasy expression, but R merely said, “I’ll be fine with him. We could use the tea for our parched throats.”

When her mother went down the corridor, I asked R what she meant.

“Hannah went to labor meetings and didn’t tell her father. Mr. Weiss was strict. She knew he would fear for her safety. He would have never allowed her to risk going to prison. I saw her once with several strikers outside another factory on Great Jones Street. She ran after me and made me promise not to tell. So I gave her my promise. She hugged me to thank me. She said, I’ll remember this.”

“Even if her father wouldn’t approve, there’s nothing so unusual in any of that,” I countered.

“She wasn’t alone. She was with a man. She started going to union meetings with him. I think she was in love with him.”

I leaned forward, interested. “And you knew this because?”

R laughed at me. I think she definitely took me for a fool. “From the look on her face.”

That was all R could tell me—she did not know the man’s name or address—but it was enough to make me wonder if the image of Hannah I’d been carrying had been distorted by the tide of her father’s love. Perhaps I hadn’t been able find a map of who she was because I’d been misled. She was more independent than I’d thought. More willing to take a risk.

I walked for a long time after leaving R. Without thinking, I found myself outside the building where the Weisses lived. I went upstairs and knocked on the door. I went by nearly every day, though I had little to report. It had become a ritual I felt I needed to complete, even on those occasions when I stayed only a few moments, embarrassed by how little I’d discovered. And yet Weiss never faulted me. He was still hopeful.