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crossroads for good, forever.
    It was like a great democratic future where everyone had his own television show—the perfect realization of Andy Warhol’s fifteen minutes of fame, one streaming minute at a time. Shows and shows about shows and shows showing people watching shows.
    It got so she was on all the time. She had old friends and new friends and real friends and web friends with blogs and video blogs, and she checked them every day. Then it was a few times a day, just in case. Then she started a vlog of her own. Her parents were working long hours and had no idea how much time she was spending on it. They had no idea how much time she spent just watching her old posts, admiring the better things she’d said, obsessing over the little mistakes.
    Gradually, it all became more real to Sejal than the real world. Gradually, online Sejal became actual Sejal.
    She once saw a banner ad that read, “If a tree falls in the internet and no one’s there to stream it, does it make a sound?” On some level Sejal understood that it was meant to be funny, but she didn’t sleep for three days.
    Then one night, her mother came home from work and poked her head through the curtained door of Sejal’s room.
    â€œHello, princess,” she said.
    Seconds passed before Sejal answered. Ten, twelve seconds. She sort of half turned to her mother and said “Hey” before her head jerked back to the screen again.
    â€œWhat are you looking at?” said Amma, entering the room. “Sejal? What are—”
    â€œ Shh, ” said Sejal.
    Amma looked over her shoulder. It was Sejal’s own video blog, and it was live. Sejal stared back from the screen, and just now her mother’s mouth and chin entered the picture.
    â€œYou’re home from work,” Sejal said to the screen with a smile.
    â€œâ€¦Yes. Darling, do you think maybe you’ve been spending—”
    â€œ Shh-shh .”
    â€œSejal, I really think—”
    â€œAmma, shh ,” she hissed. “Something might happen and I don’t want to miss it.”
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    â€œIt is not contagious,” Sejal told the girl on the plane.
    â€œI know. Sorry. So you guys…have the internet in India?”
    Sejal laughed. “We have the internet. Both my parents are computer programmers. Our connection speed was supernatural ,” she said, aware that her voice had become draped with a flowery longing.
    Her American foster family had assured her parents in writing that they had only dial-up.
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    The baggage carousel was filled with luggage now, and it was beginning to thin out as passengers took up their lives again and wheeled them out the sliding doors. Sejal saw her bright pink bag, as radiant as a wound, and when it came within reach she didn’t move to claim it.
    â€œWhat does yours look like?” asked Cat.
    Sejal followed it with her eyes.
    â€œI do not see it yet.”
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    â€œI can’t believe they lost your bag,” said Cat from the driver’s seat of her black Jetta. “Those meathead asswipes.”
    Sejal smiled faintly in the passenger seat, shifting her feet to avoid the seasick tide of bottles and empty drink cups on the car floor. Sorry about my car , Cat had said when they’d found it in the airport parking garage, but it had turned out she was apologizing not for the mess but for the simple fact that it was a Jetta.
    â€œWe should have waited at that counter longer. Or gone to find somebody,” Cat added.
    â€œWe can maybe call tomorrow?” said Sejal. “I’m anxious to see my new home. And my new bed.”
    â€œOh, right. You’re probably tired.”
    â€œVery tired.”
    â€œOnly I think my mom has a special dinner planned,” said Cat, wincing.
    â€œOh!” said Sejal, brightening even as her heart sank. “Of course, that is wonderful, no? My first American home-cooked meal.”
    â€œActually,”