The sentence hit me like a punch to the chest.
For several seconds, I couldn’t even answer.
I had been sitting alone on a worn wooden bench in Central Park, drinking the last of an inexpensive coffee after finishing another exhausting shift, when three little girls stopped directly in front of me.
They couldn’t have been older than seven.
Each wore the same cream-colored coat, matching ribbons in her hair, spotless shoes, and the same curious expression. They looked almost impossible to tell apart.
But it wasn’t their appearance that unsettled me.
It was the certainty in their eyes as they stared at the faded compass tattoo on my left forearm.
“I’m sorry,” I finally managed to say. “What did you just tell me?”
The child standing in the center smiled and pointed toward my arm.
