Three little girls in Central Park recognized the tattoo on my arm—when they said their last name, a seven-year secret I was never meant to uncover came to light

her shoes clearly not built for wet sidewalks. She sat two stools down and ordered coffee in a voice that sounded composed but exhausted.

I noticed her because she looked out of place.

She noticed my sketchbook.

“Do you always draw broken things?” she asked.

I looked down at the napkin in front of me. I’d been sketching a compass with a cracked needle.continue reading …