“You see the sign,” the woman said. Not a question.
They walked through the lavender city. Every person Mali passed had a slight wrongness—an extra finger, eyes the color of turmeric, a laugh that came out backward. Yet each one greeted her like an old friend.
She felt them then—a second heartbeat in her left palm, a third behind her eyes. She focused on the memory of the wooden sign, the smell of grilled squid, her real mother’s voice scolding her to charge her phone.