Of course, I want to scream. You made me believe they were our only link! That they were important. Like you would come back for them…for me.

“Where’d you hide them?”

“Under the mattress,” I say. I don’t say that I pulled them out every night, flipping through each one, committing their archaic images to memory. Most little girls cuddle their favorite stuffed animals until the fur wears patchy and the eyes fall out. That is what the cards have become. I curled up at night with the Queen of Cups and the Emperor. I don’t need to know what they mean—I just need to know that they’re there.

“Did you learn to read them?” Her eyes glisten with a sort of hope.

We are sharing something. I realize she likes this and resist the urge to hurl the box out the window.

“No.”

She deflates, sinking a bit into her seat.

“They’re missing a card—the Moon. It wasn’t in the box when you gave it to me.”

She looks away. The missing card makes her uncomfortable. No doubt another superstition. “Weird.”

I set the box between us, watch her shift her weight to the other side of the car. I want to ask her what they meant, why she had them, why she gave them to me. But we are uneasy together still, like strangers trapped in an elevator.

“So, New Orleans?” I finally say after a long silence.

She smiles at me, grateful for the attempt at light conversation, neutral territory. “Yep.”

“How long have you been there?”

“Three years or so.” She puckers her lips, thinking. “It really suits me. I can’t believe I didn’t go there sooner.”

I can picture her wearing the Big Easy like a well-tailored suit. They share the same curse—too much character.

“You’ll love it, I promise. There’s always so much to do. Never a dull moment, you know what I mean?”

I shrug. I don’t mind dull moments. Dull moments are safe. They’re easy. They don’t send people over the edge. They don’t lure mothers away from their daughters or women away from their wits.