We treat ourselves to butterhorns and insulated cups of strong coffee. Molly, always a compulsive reader of free literature, grabs a flyer with a hair salon coupon and a rundown of the women’s shelter services: “Help someone make a New Beginning. Career clothes needed.” We try to imagine what it might be like, running for shelter with nothing but the clothes on our backs. It puts our own issues into perspective, for sure, and I keep the flyer, vowing to send a check. We don’t linger, though. The destination we’ve been driving toward for days now lies just a few miles ahead.

We haven’t said much about yesterday. Finally, Molly says, “So Travis is home now. He just sent me a text.”

I brace myself. She might still want to turn around. “I know you’re hurting and I hate that. Everything that happens to you goes straight through my heart.”

“Then you know how it feels.”

In the beat of hesitation, I hold my breath and wait for her to speak again.

“I have to do this,” she says. “I want it, I really do.”

“I’m proud of you, Moll. You’re going to do great.”

We take the interstate to the multilane bridge. Like thick arteries, ramps delve down toward the heart of the city.

An official green-and-white sign marks the city limits. Elevation 40 Feet. Population 101,347.

Molly whips her head toward me. “Which way, left or right?”

“Left.”

My thumb traces the route, inching forward as each side street flips past. This place has no grid, just densely aligned roads, some only a block long, others leading nowhere. It’s like a web or a net. How will Molly get around in this strange, busy city? How is she going to find her way?

“You have to go left here. Can you make a left from this lane?”

A sense of change takes hold as the city rises around us; I am delivering my only child into uncharted territory. We’re here. Our arrival seems abrupt, even though the drive lasted for days. We go from one world to another in a matter of steps. One moment, we’re wending our way through a tangle of turnpikes and traffic jams, and the next, we find ourselves in a placid oasis of calm.

The quiet brick street looks like a movie set: trees gracefully shedding the first of their leaves, green rectangular yards crisscrossed by footpaths, colonial-style redbrick buildings with small-paned windows, their frames painted a fresh white. Gaslight fixtures line the sidewalks. The brick walkways bear generations of pockmarks and dents.

We stop and purchase a one-day parking permit. Cars and minivans and SUVs are parked along the curbs on both sides of the roadway. Shiny vehicles disgorge long-legged, laughing girls, slender boys staggering under boxes and cartons, mothers consulting lists, a father or two, standing around talking on cell phones or looking lost.