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

was.

I should have asked more.

I didn’t.

By sunrise we’d wandered the city, traded stories that were only partly true, and ended up at a small tattoo shop whose owner agreed to open early for cash.

Savannah insisted we both get the broken compass.

“So we remember this night,” she said.

“You think we’ll forget?”

She held my gaze for a long moment.

“People forget continue reading …