My sister climbed onto my dorm-room ledge, told me to pack up. This was a day after Mother left a note, some cash. Mother was leaving, needed shape in her life. So were we, Nancy said. She didn’t know where we were going. That was the thrill. We stayed in small-town motels, talking about how she’d wanted to become some high-name editor or lounge singer, her dreams always shifting. How I didn’t know what I wanted. I’d been shuffled between schools, told what to think too long. At dusk, we held each other, shadows deepening, the full moon sinking beneath us.