THE DAY SHE left I thought of all the things that could go wrong: that she’d lose her passport or her glasses or run out of anti-bacterial handwash. Or the nuns wouldn’t be there to meet her and take her to the school as they’d promised. Or she’d go to the cash machine her first day in the city and it wouldn’t give her any money. Or she’d get a blister on her foot like the one she got in Solva last summer from her new sandal and it would get infected and she wouldn’t go to the doctor in time and it would grow gangrenous and she’d end up having to have her leg amputated, or she’d have brought the wrong kind of adapter, or the travel towel she’d bought from Millets would be worse than useless, or her plane would crash, exploding in a ball of black fire somewhere high above the mountains—but when we got there, the old man in the bright shawl said it was nothing like that. It just broke in two like a bread roll, spilling crumbs from the sky.