The thing about moving all the time was that nowhere felt like home. Ali couldn’t point to one city, town, or village and say, “This is my hometown. I belong here.” In most of the books she read, the main character left home to undertake an epic adventure. Sometimes that adventure was about saving their home, like Frodo in The Lord of the Rings. Other times, the adventure was about the main character getting lost and finding their way home, like Dorothy in The Wizard of Oz. But in every case, if the main character succeeded, they had a home to go back to.

Not Ali. No place tugged at her heart or made her want to stay. When she walked down the street, there were no familiar faces; she was never anywhere long enough to recognize anyone. Over time, even the people she did remember became so blurred that she couldn’t recall where she knew them from. Saint John was her last chance to set down roots. But Saint John depended on Gigi, and things weren’t looking good.

Gigi had improved very little in the two days since the doctor’s visit. She slept most of the time and subsisted on Digger’s homemade broth. Ali peeked in her room several times a day, but had gotten no reaction. Outside her closed bedroom window—as per the doctor’s orders—several birds and squirrels sat in the nearby tree and stared in at her. Digger said they were waiting for their regular handouts, but to an emotional Ali, they appeared to be keeping vigil.

“You’re so quiet tonight, Ali,” her mother said at supper. “Anything wrong? Besides Gigi, I mean.”

“What will happen if Gigi gets too sick to live at home anymore, or if she—” Ali tried to keep her emotions in check but couldn’t stop the rogue tear that slid down her cheek.

Her mother reached for her hand. “I know it’s hard. We just have to hope for the best.”

“We have to tell her the truth, Ginger,” said a grim Digger.

The room tilted. “What truth?” Ali demanded.

“Digger . . .” There was a warning in her mother’s voice, which Digger ignored.

“We’re here as Gigi’s guests. Once she’s not here, we’ll have to leave.”

Something electric pulsed through Ali and twisted itself into fearful strands of hopelessness. Ali might not be from anywhere in particular, but she had plenty of memories of the horrible places they’d lived in: walls so thin the wind passed through them like they were cardboard; shouting neighbors; mouse droppings everywhere; wondering if the food bank box would last until her mother’s next paycheck; the world—or maybe just her parents—waiting to pull the rug out from underneath them. She squeezed her eyes shut. “You mean we’d have to move if Gigi dies?”