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attention to the preacher. He raised his head, shut his Bible, and stepped aside for the mayor. The mayor, a woman with stark brown hair and the methodical manner of a woodchuck gnawing a hard tree branch, began giving a short speech about me. “No matter how Alice saved that beautiful little child,” she said in a toothy voice, “it’s her secret. We know she’ll tell us the real story about her heroic act someday. We know she’s just too shy to tell us yet. We know the truth is as heroic as Alice’s storybook explanation.”
    How dare she, Alice? Stand up and tell that pompous little woman your integrity is beyond question.
    The mystery voice, again, urging me to rebel against my town, my family, the only home I had in the world.
    Please , I begged. Stop .
    “Alice, come up here,” the mayor ordered. I couldn’t make myself move at first. Sitting behind me like a watchdog, my mother’s eldest sister clamped a hand on my shoulder and shoved me slightly. I wavered to a stand, locked my trembling knees, then slowly made my way across a mere yard or two of winter lawn, every step requiring total concentration. Beads of moisture slid down my face. On the bandstand’s stage, a stern man in a gray suit and overcoat rose from a chair beside the podium. I made my way up the bandstand’s whitewashed wooden steps as if blind, never raising my eyes to either the people on the stage or the crowd on the lawn.
    “Alice,” the mayor chewed into the podium’s microphone, “please welcome the governor’s dear friend.” She named the man’s name, but it didn’t matter. He was a substitute for the little girl’s family, an insincere stranger sent to shield them from my strange self. He rose firmly and began to speak, holding up a plaque bearing my name and the insignia of some obscure foundation I’d never heard of, possibly one that had been made up for the occasion. “The governor and his family are sure of one thing—sure they’re grateful their precious little girl is alive, safe and well. You did the right thing, Ms. Alice Riley. You know in your heart you did the right thing by saving a child’s life, and that’s all that matters.”
    How dare he imply your motives remain in question , the voice whispered.
    I gripped my hands together and stared, dazed, as the presenter turned and looked at me. He held out the plaque almost like a challenge. Several reporters posed themselves to snap pictures, and the white-hot light of an Atlanta TV crew suddenly scalded the scene. I blinked hard as I looked up at the presenter. His pity, disgust, and resignation constricted my chest and made me gasp for air. This was my life—eccentric and ugly—this was how people saw me, and suddenly I realized this was how I would always see myself, too, shrinking inch by inch until one day I would simply evaporate.
    The singing voice suggested otherwise. Imaginary or not, suddenly I had to look. Sweating, shaking, I turned my head toward the crowd with excruciating care, squinting directly into the TV light, bracing my feet wide apart as my breath shortened to a dizzying pant. A hundred pinched and disapproving faces stared back at me, just like the award presenter, shortening me, melting me, and me letting them. My heart sank. No one was out there but mirrors of those faces.
    But then.
    But then.
    She stepped into a grassy aisle that divided the rows of chairs. She stepped out of the light, it seemed to me, and walked right up that center aisle with a stride more graceful than a dancer’s, and she stood, tall and beautiful, silver hair piled in some soft, intricate fashion on her head, her body cased in a beautiful light suit not at all right for the place or the weather. Her eyes were the deepest green, lined at the corners with wisdom, utterly hypnotic. I could not breathe. She didn’t lift a hand, say a word, even nod. She sang to me with the silent vibration, the voiceless whisper. And behind her arrived two others, just as