The wallet wasn’t quite a wallet, actually, but, rather, a black leather pouch large enough to comfortably hold her passport, residencia card, credit card, debit cards, Metrobús card, and house keys, as well as a small Polaroid of Andrés, two pens, and seven thousand pesos in cash. This was the litany that she, in her faltering Spanish, and he, in his native Spanish, repeated at the airline counter, the airport information desk, in the security department, the luggage department, and then to various voices on the phone. They described the thing that had been lost, and all the things inside the thing that had been lost, recited this list like a prayer, or a spell.