On our backs, we traced Antarctica with our toes. Head
nestled in beige carpet, I looked up at the pins she'd pushed into the
plaster. Red for where we were; three blues made a line that led
westward.
"That's where I'm going," she said, one hand brushing Japan. I rolled the
green head of a pin over my thumb, letting my eyes drift eastward over
coasts and continents. My gaze rested nowhere. She traced my chin. "And
you?"
I looked back. How was I to know where years would take me? My fate was
still not pinned upon the map.
[Kate Callahan]
