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To Margaret, I dedicate these watercolor memories of autumn, 1924. She was twenty-three, brilliant with both brush and verse, living in that sun-drenched studio on Wellington Street. Her paintings captured what words could never express, making her more than just another artist.

The evening rush brings in the usual crowd, but something about the woman in the corner booth catches my eye. Her perfectly manicured hands tap an irregular rhythm on the table, and her smile doesn't quite reach her eyes. My training screams there's more to her story.

When I was 12, I fell off my bike and broke my arm in three places. My dad was supposed to pick me up from the hospital, but he was at a golf tournament. The nurse kept saying he'd come soon, but I ended up taking a cab home alone.

When I was 14, my appendix burst during a school field trip to Atlanta. My dad was at a business conference and told the teachers to "handle it." I spent three days in the hospital before anyone from my family showed up.

The shadows on the street started moving by themselves today. People walked past without noticing, but their own shadows stayed behind. I counted seventeen abandoned shadows before the street lights flickered and everything went dark. A child's giggle echoed somewhere nearby.

When I was 12, I broke my arm at gymnastics practice. My dad was supposed to pick me up, but he was at a business dinner. The coach called three times before my stepmom finally came, two hours later, complaining about missing her book club.

When I was 12, my appendix burst during my dance recital. Mom was getting her nails done and told the studio to just drop me at the ER. The nurses couldn't believe she didn't come until three hours after my surgery.

When I was 12, my appendix burst during a school field trip. The teachers called my mom's office repeatedly, but she was in an important meeting and told them to handle it. My sister ended up being the one who came to the hospital.