“What?” Tom asked.

“She pointed at me,” she said, but this time she stared at me. “She pointed. She had the whitest hair, like moonlight.”

Headlights wound down the road. It was one of my parents, on their way to pick me up at the party. I ran a hand through my hair.

Tom laughed nervously. “It was probably just some lost trick-or-treater.”

“Are you okay, Mary?” I asked. Her screams had shaken me. My heart still pounded.

She didn’t say anything. Shirley walked over and hugged her. Tom put his hands on his hips and stared up at the stars.

As my parents’ car came closer, it baptized us in light. I stepped slowly out into the road and waved both of my arms over my head, relieved when the car eased to a stop.

My dad wound down his window and poked his head out. “Well, well, well,” he said, grinning. “And who do we have here?”

I saw Mary clearly for the first time. Her hands were shaking, her eyes were wide, and when she glanced up at Shirley I thought I saw her jaw tremble.

And she was beautiful.

A Place in This World

What does the woman look like?” I ask you.

“Drink your tea, Grampy. It’s getting cold.”

I lift the cup, take a long sip, and put it down. “Why won’t you tell me more about her?”

“I already told you, she’s very kind. She’s tall. She helped me with the map. She wanted to see you in that old building, but you walked right past her.” You shrug. “She said she needs my help. She’s lost something very important to her. That’s all.”

You remind me of your grandmother, with your dark hair and your dark eyes.

“We’re going to leave for Nysa in the morning. Are you okay to pack a bag?”

“How many days should I pack for?”

“Bring a week’s worth of clothes,” I say, offering a resigned smile. “We’ll go from there.”

Later, after you’re in bed and asleep and I’ve seen your breath raising and lowering your tiny rib cage, I sit at the edge of my own bed. I take a wooden ruler and thin shoelace from my bedside table and wrap the shoelace around the circumference of the knot on the side of my head, marking the circle’s endpoint with my thumb and forefinger. I stretch out the shoestring along the ruler to get the length of the circumference of my knot, my tumor, my anytime-to-three-months lump.

It’s quite a bit bigger than it was the day before, although I admit my method is not exact. I stare at the shoelace, consider measuring again, think better of it, and stash both tools back in my drawer. I turn out the light and lie down on top of the covers, hovering there in the darkness.

I think about going home. Is Nysa home? I find it strange that I still think of it that way. Even now. It is a good idea, I know that much. It would be a safe place for you, I think, not like the city. The country would let you air out a bit, spread your wings, have some freedom. A nice family could raise you in a nice house with nice trips to the shore and vacations and all the trappings of a small-town school with football games and new No. 2 pencils. I hope Nysa hasn’t become too snooty in the years since I was there, that there’s still a farming element, a hardworking blue-collar section.