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

black ink was still there, weathered but easy to make out: a broken compass with a cracked needle and an unfinished circle.

Not a common design. Not something you’d pick off a wall in a tattoo shop.

I’d designed it myself.

Eight years earlier, on a napkin, in Seattle.

Only one other person was ever supposed to have it.

I lifted my eyes back to the girl.continue reading …