Maya had made empty promises to call and let Debbie know how she was doing, then cranked the engine of the black Nissan Sentra. “Where are you headed?” Debbie had asked.

“I’m going home.” She knew there was no home to head to, and worse, Debbie knew it too. But Maya wanted to say the words so badly. She wanted to say them and have them be true. Instead, she’d headed south on the interstate and waited for a sign.

Her grandmother had talked a lot about signs—watching for them, listening for them, waiting for them. She’d lived by signs given and received. Maya hoped a sign would jump up and reveal itself as she drove, but the farther she went, the darker the sky grew and the quicker her hopes slid out through the cracked windshield.

At a stop for gas, a flyer on the glass door advertised a River Days Art Festival taking place in August in a place called Sugar Bend. As her eyes focused on those two words, Sugar Bend, a cool rush of air caressed her overwarm skin and images flashed through her mind, as quick as her grandmother’s hands: a handful of seashells and tumbled glass. A flutter of birds’ wings in treetops and on porch steps. A boy standing next to her, golden hair gleaming in the setting sun. Comfort, security, and the indelible sense of belonging wrapped around her like a blanket. She was exactly where she was meant to be.

Maya was frozen, one hand on the door of the gas station, as the pictures in her mind snapped and fizzed.

“Ma’am? Are you okay?”

She blinked and it all disappeared. The only thing in her vision was the dingy gas station and the smudged door with the flyer taped to it.

Behind her the man had cleared his throat. “You okay there? You look like you done seen a ghost.”

“I’m fine.”

Inside the man took his place behind the cash register, and Maya paid for her gas. At the door she paused. “How far is it to Sugar Bend?”

“About ten minutes”—the man pointed down the road—“thataway. A sign will show you where to turn.”

“Thanks.” Back in her car, she sat and drummed her fingers on the steering wheel. Finally she pulled out of the station and turned in the direction the man had pointed.

That was a month ago. Sitting here in her room above the bait shop now, she smoothed her fingers across her grandmother’s face in the photo again. Well, I’m here, Nana. I saw the sign. What now?

A few minutes later, she tucked the photo beneath her pillow and reached under the bed for the shoebox. It was full of items she’d lifted from each place she’d lived, each one a reminder of days spent in a life that didn’t belong to her. With each item she’d tucked away in the box, she prayed for a life that was hers, one where she could make her own choices, including when to stay and when to leave. A life no one could take from her.