From the waiting area I could see people changing their minds. They would walk one way, stop, consult a spouse or a folded paper, and walk back. I joined them for several steps before recognizing that I had no destination except closer. The entrance where I had expected Tessa was no longer a meeting place I could use.
A man beside a low wall lifted his hand as I passed. He had a newspaper folded under one arm and a white stripe of old paint on the leather of his watchband. "They've asked us not to go that way," he said. He pointed without stepping into my path.
"My daughter's supposed to meet me."
"Then somebody ought to tell her where you are. But I don't think getting stopped over there will do it." His voice was ordinary, almost irritatingly so. He was not claiming authority. That left me less to argue against.
I looked toward the restriction again. People were being kept back, and I could hear the same guidance repeated. I had driven enough school trips to recognize the trouble made by one adult who believed an exception was only common sense. I did not want to recognize myself in that adult.
"I'm Leona Voss," I said, as if a proper introduction might restore some of the order I had lost.
"Bram Keene." He moved his newspaper so I could sit on the wall if I wanted. "I was staying there too. My bag's still in my room."
I remained standing. "My address book is in mine. Her new number's in it."
"Anybody whose number you know?"
"My son. Nolan." The answer came so readily that I resented not having thought of it first. Then I remembered the quarters, the call already made, and the fact that knowing one number did not mean Nolan would be standing beside his telephone.
Bram took a pencil from his shirt pocket. "Might help to write down what you need to tell him before you get a phone." He opened the newspaper to a wide margin. "Not on the news. Here, where there's nothing."
I said I had paper, and produced the receipt. The destination faced upward between us. Before he could read it, I turned it over. On the blank back I wrote Tessa's name, then stopped. I had begun a letter instead of a message.
"What does she need first?" Bram asked.
"That I'm outside. That I'm safe." I wrote those words. "That she shouldn't try the entrance."
"And where she can find you."
That was the part neither of us could supply. Bram did not pretend otherwise. He looked toward the people giving directions, and I went to ask where displaced guests could wait and use a telephone without approaching the closed area. Asking a practical question felt less satisfying than walking toward the entrance. It also produced an answer.
I returned with directions toward accessible neighboring premises, outside the restricted area. I wrote that we were going there, then drew a line through it. Until I reached the place, I could not honestly say that was where I was waiting. My message needed to describe something completed, not another intention.
"You write signs?" I asked, noticing the paint again.
"Used to. Retired now." He glanced at my crossed-out sentence. "A sign that sends somebody to the wrong door is worse than no sign."
"I drove a school bus. A note that says a child went home with somebody isn't much use without the somebody."
He nodded, and for the first time I felt we were having a conversation rather than his helping me. We both knew the cost of imprecise directions. Neither of us knew where my daughter was.
I kept the message short: I had left safely; I would call Nolan from the safe location once I reached it; Tessa should not approach the closed entrance. There was no place to leave the message that would guarantee she received it. Writing it did not locate her. But it gave me words I could repeat without adding panic to every telling.
Bram asked whether I wanted company walking toward the telephones. I said yes, then checked the directions once more. We left by the indicated way. I did not look for a gap in the restriction. The entrance remained behind us, and for the first time since leaving the lobby, I was going somewhere I had permission to go.