Our new neighbors, Joan and Thomas, had come over to introduce themselves that afternoon. They’d moved in three days earlier because Thomas had taken a new job nearby.
Until that moment, everything had been painfully ordinary: moving boxes, polite introductions, a teenager who apparently hated unpacking.
« Nicole? »
Then Joan had called toward their house.
A 14-year-old girl appeared.
For a second, I forgot what I’d been about to say.
It wasn’t just her eyes.
It was what she did with her hand.
Mia pressed her thumbnail into the side of her index finger, rubbed twice, then curled her fingers into her palm.
A 14-year-old girl appeared.