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“Well, we’d need a quote from him in order to run this,” Neil says, leaning back in his chair again. “To cover our bases.” A seagull swoops past the window and out toward New Jersey. I have to press my palm to my knee to keep my leg still.

I’ve been trying to talk with Ricardo for over a month. He works for a huge Mexican media company called Grupo Real. All my emails have bounced back, and I can’t get through on his direct line because apparently all the receptionists have been highly trained in evasive tactics like they’re working for the pinche Centro Nacional de Inteligencia.

But if Neil says I need a quote from Ricardo, then I’ll get a quote from Ricardo.

“Of course,” I say. “No problem.”

“Okay,” Neil says, closing his laptop with a click. “The series is running for a year, starting in June. We can pencil your article in for publication in early January. Which means I’d need the final draft by mid-November for edits.”

“Not a problem,” I reply immediately. I feel a faint buzzing sensation in my chest.

Neil stands and shakes my hand.

“Welcome to The New Yorker,” he says.

I step into the late afternoon sunlight and have to suppress the urge to fling my arms out and spin around, like that nun in the movie with the Nazis.

The sun glints off the glass windows of the surrounding skyscrapers and the wind off the water is crisp and cool. I weave my way through a group of tourists taking photos of the 9/11 Memorial and take out my phone. I have a text from Lupe on our family thread with a video of one of my nieces’ figure skating lessons, one from Antonio asking how the interview went, and another from my younger sister, Carolina.

Dude, you think Lupe’s trying to live out her childhood Disney on Ice dreams?

I chuckle. Caro and I are really close.

With three aunts, six cousins (all primas), two sisters, and four nieces, my family is about 95 percent female. And it’s great! I love women. In a respectful, noncreepy way. There’s no machismo in the Martinez family. My dad is probably the most mild-mannered, open-minded person I know. Caro calls him an accidental feminist. When she came out to my parents as bisexual, my mom immediately started making tacos campechanos—my mom’s reaction to any big emotion is cooking—and my dad just nodded, gave her a hug, and put on a Juan Gabriel record.

I text Antonio the good news, thanking him for helping me get the interview, then duck into an empty ATM vestibule to get to work. Surely some receptionist at Grupo Real will at least let me through to his company voicemail.

I’m not sure exactly what I should say to him though. Hi, I’m your nephew. Your father cheated on my abuela with your mom. Surprise!

Don’t think Hallmark sells cards for that.

I dial the number, and a woman I’m sure I haven’t spoken to before says in polite Spanish, “Grupo Real, how can I direct your call?”

“Hi,” I say. “I’m trying to get in touch with Ricardo Cuevas.”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Cuevas isn’t here.”

“Can I leave a message?”

“What is this in regard to, sir?”

It’s like they think I’m trying to steal state secrets. I’ve tried being upfront about being a journalist, told them I was a relative, and pretended to have a delivery that needed his confirmation. All with no luck. Maybe the receptionists at Grupo Real should work at the CNI.

“I used to work with his father,” I say, attempting yet another tactic. “Before he died,” I add, for sympathy. “And I’ve got some of his things I thought Ricardo might want to have. I know they were very close.”

I have no idea if they were close, but I’m hoping this woman doesn’t either.

“Oh,” she says. “That’s so kind of you.” She hesitates then adds, “But Mr. Cuevas is working in the Beijing offices at the moment.”

Beijing! Dammit. At least I’m getting somewhere with this receptionist though.

“Ah,” I say, “that must be why I can’t get through. Tell me, is there an address I could send his things to?”

“I can’t give you an address,” she says.

“No, of course not,” I say. “How silly of me for asking.” Then I give a big sigh. “It’s just some personal correspondence from his father that I think he’d like to have.”

“Well,” she says slowly, “Mr. Cuevas will be at the wedding in October. Mr. Alvarez has invited many people in the company to attend. Mr. Cuevas is in the marketing department, and I know they’re all going.”