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that they were almost always babies or at least kids who were much younger than we were.
    Some of our discussions were about the house we’d live in with our new families. Maybe we wouldn’t have to share a room, maybe we’d have more clothing— new clothing—or even a dog. It was our dream to become part of a family, to belong somewhere, to finally be wanted by somebody, even if we hadn’t been wanted by our mothers or fathers.
    Sometimes Toni and I talked about one family adopting the two of us. Even if the family only wanted one child, we’d say they had to take us both or they couldn’t have either of us. I don’t know if Toni really would have gone through with it—or if I would have either—but it made us feel better. Not only would we have parents and a home, but also we’d be sisters. But would a true sister have gone away without saying goodbye? I couldn’t let myself think like that. Even if I couldn’t hold on to Toni, I needed to hang on to the memory of our friendship. After all, what else did I have?
    My second fantasy was just as strong. Someday the door would open and, instead of an adoptive parent, my real mother or father would walk in, claim me and take me back to my real family and real home. And there would have been a really good reason why they had given me up. I’d be reunited with my brothers and sisters, and our house would be beautiful, and my mother would be ever so kind.
    Maybe my mother was royalty and there had been a plot against the throne. To protect me, my parents had sent me away, and now the situation had been resolved. I’d forgive them and we’d all live happily ever after.
    As we got older the fantasies and dreams came less often, because the reality became stronger. There was only going to be ebb and no flow, fade and no grow. I didn’t remember when the fantasies stopped completely, but they did. Nobody was going to adopt me and nobody was going to rescue me. I came to accept that. Still, in some little corner of my mind, there had been a little slice of hope.
    Until I read those articles.
    My mother was dead. She wasn’t coming back. I’d never pass her on the street, not knowing who she was. We’d never meet by chance and discover our connection; we’d never embrace and live our futures intertwined. We’d share no past and have no future. Now, finally, that last glimmer of hope had been taken away, killed this very day when I found out that my mother had been killed—had been murdered.
    I felt confused. I needed to think. No, I needed not to think. I needed to sleep. I shut my eyes tightly and placed a hand against them to block out the light. I’d try to sleep. I just hoped I wouldn’t dream.

Five
    MY EYES POPPED open. There was a hand on my shoulder and a woman standing over me.
    “Dear, isn’t this your stop?” she asked. “This is Kingston.”
    Then it came back. I was on a train and—
    “You are getting off in Kingston, aren’t you?”
    I jumped up, and my purse and the papers on my lap scattered and dropped to the floor. I reached down and gathered them up, crumpling them and stuffing them into my purse. I was partway down the aisle when I realized I’d forgotten my bag under the seat. I raced back and tried to pull it free, but it was jammed. I gave an extra-hard tug, and it popped free, causing me to almost tumble over backward.
    “Thank you, thank you so much,” I called to the woman.
    “Hurry, dear. The train is about to leave.”
    Bag in one hand, purse in the other, I ran down the aisle toward a door. I got there just in time to see the conductor at the bottom of the stairs with the little step stool in his hands.
    “Please wait, I have to get off!”
    “Cutting it a little close,” he said as he offered me a hand.
    “I’m sorry—I fell asleep. Thank you.”
    No sooner had my feet hit the platform than he and his stool jumped back on board and he leaned out and waved for the engineer to start the train.
    I turned and looked back