Trail of Broken Wings by Sejal Badani Page A

now.
    “Still sleeping,” I reply, the only answer I have at hand.
    “Excellent,” Linda does not miss a beat. “The rest will do him good. And your family? How are they holding up?”
    “As well as can be expected,” I answer. As close as we are, I have never told her or anyone about my past. “Did you get the last set of pictures I sent you?” I ask, eager to change the subject.
    “Of the Nor’easter that hit New England? Storm of the century? They were fabulous. I have three papers that made bids for them. We’ll play them against each other for a bit.”
    “Thanks.” The money has never excited me much. With no one to spend it on, it sits in the bank. Linda, however, is continually frustrated with me when locale trumps payment for my choice of assignments. She is sure my talent can bring in the big bucks, plus, for her, every assignment’s worth is dependent on the commission it pays her. “That’s why I’m calling. I need a job.”
    It is usually the other way around: Linda contacts me with a slew of new projects. She runs down the list until one sounds appealing. I am her favorite client because there are no limitations on where I will go or when. It is easy for me to drop everything since I have nothing to hold me. No husband or children whose schedules will be interrupted by mine.
    “Excellent! I have an online magazine that wants pictures of Russia.” She pauses as she consults her iPad. Linda has very few attachments in her life but if her tablet could be surgically connected to her, she’d be thrilled. “A paper in London wants to follow up on the rape crisis in India. An in-depth exposé. May require three to six months of time, but that hasn’t stopped you before.” She sounds pleased. “Which one should I schedule you in for?”
    I pause, considering her offer of India. My heritage, my ancestral home. “No,” I murmur, keeping my voice light, the panic at bay. Though we went once when I was a child, I’ve never felt the yearning to return. “Not India. Actually, I need something closer to home.” I glance out the window of the café I have been sitting in for the last few hours. With a cup in hand, I have watched as the diverse population ofPalo Alto has found the one thing they have in common—the need for expensive coffee. “The Bay Area, in fact. No traveling.”
    Linda falls silent, as I expected she might. A question remains unspoken. I wait to see if she will ask it, but in the end I know her decision. Even if it were to save her life, she will not pry into yours. I imagine she has secrets of her own that she holds dear, and she therefore understands others’ need to keep their own counsel. Whatever her reasoning, I appreciate her restraint. “Let me see what I find.”

    Days have passed since I called Linda. Needing an escape, I drive toward the city and park, deciding to walk along the Golden Gate Bridge. A low fog hangs over the bay, with the sun barely peeking out from behind the clouds. The water is clear but choppy, crashing against the rocks as sea lions cavort nearby. I cup my palms together and blow into them, trying to ward off the chill. Tourists with cameras hanging off their necks bustle past me, pointing and snapping pictures of Alcatraz Island, situated in the middle of the frigid water. Raising my camera, I glance through the lens to see the prison as they do—a fortress that held some of the most notorious criminals of its time. Without taking a picture, I lower it and see it for what I believe it to be—a building that sits empty, with too many ghosts to tell the full tale of the lives that inhabited it.
    “Excuse us,” a small Chinese man says in stilted English. “Would you mind taking our picture?” he asks, pointing to the large group standing behind him. A mix of young and old, clearly a family that has traveled together. The children are pushing one another while the men and women watch me expectantly, hoping I will capture this moment for