The photograph had been in the glove box so long the edges had softened. Leticia wiped a smear of condensation off the plastic and let the twins stare back at her—two eight-year-olds, hair tangled from the harbor wind, knees scabbed, mouths frozen in different half-smiles that told the whole story. One grin was full-on, a performance for the camera. The other clung to the shadow like a secret. She said it aloud, because she loved the play of it. "You’d never guess we’re twins, huh?" It came out as a laugh, a slivered thing, not loud enough to wake anyone. In the rearview mirror she practiced Lizzie’s smile the way she’d practiced every role that had ever mattered: patient, adjustable, precise. Lizzie's smile opened at the eyes first, the whole face joining. Leticia's smile had always been a late arrival, the stagehand shoving up a prop. She leaned forward and made the corners of her mouth pull, a little wider, a touch softer. Eyes. She tilted her head half a degree. The mirror returned the image: someone trying to be someone else. She understood the angles. She had to. The car was warm from the heater. Outside, Harborview exhaled night—glass towers slivering light, a train line blinking down the bay like a promise. Inside, Leticia was the only one awake in a row of sleeping suburbs. She slid the photo back into its sleeve and, on impulse, opened