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visible. Sam had never seen public housing in Madison, but she knew it was close by, tucked behind the fast-food restaurants and the tire stores. Was that where they were headed? Should she have offered them a ride?
    A hard knock on her window froze her breath. It was a policeman, his radio a loud litany of static, chirping, and a garbled voice of a female dispatcher, as Sam rolled down the window.
    â€œIs your kid in there?” he said, pointing to the center.
    â€œNo. She’s with … I was just. Sitting here. Thinking.”
    â€œYou’re loitering. At a child facility.”
    â€œWhat? Oh, no. Really. I’ll move.” She straightened up and reached for her ignition.
    â€œHold on a minute. You’re not going until I say you’re going. License and registration, please.”
    As the officer walked away with Sam’s documents, she saw the reflection of her car in the Kidzone window and had the awful realization that he was checking to see if she was some kind of pedophile on the registered sex offender list. She was molten in embarrassment, sweat dripping down her sides, at a loss even about what to do with her hands, finally hooking her fingers on the bottom rung of the steering wheel. The cop returned and handed back her license and registration card.
    â€œI’m sorry I caused any concern. I’m a mother,” she said, as if that exempted her from suspicion.
    â€œMove it along, ma’am,” he barked, quickly taking his leave.
    She started the car, her hand quivering, and backed out in front of the cruiser. She wanted to wave and smile, to erase any doubt the officer had, but she refrained, not trusting herself these days to know how to appear normal. In the last year she had lost the conception she used to have of herself, as if her internal filter had been knocked askew. But when she shifted into drive and looked up, there was the girl she had followed, standing in the doorframe of the motel room eating from a large bag of Skittles, her hair in a ponytail now, accentuating the sharp trajectory of her nose. Her lips were wet with purple lip gloss, her feet bare, one foot perched on the inside of her knee like a flamingo. She was someone’s daughter. A few wrong choices and here she was. Surely Sam could talk to her, reach out to her in some way, couldn’t she? Who are you trying to convince? Sam said to herself. You can’t even talk to your husband. She could see the police officer in her periphery, and she slowly moved forward.
    She knew she was losing her grasp on the day, and she had to get to work. The thought that her output was now absurdly tied to Jack’s career made her eyes ache. She drove back to her familiar neighborhood, trees afire, sun high, Tibetan peace flags and bicycles on porches, lawn signs sprouting from overgrown yards— THERE IS NO SUCH THING AS CLEAN COAL, NADER IS MY HOMEBOY, WHERE ARE WE GOING AND WHY AM I IN THIS HANDBASKET ?—scarecrows and elaborately carved pumpkins on stoops, and the purple moose head mounted on her neighbor’s front door.
    When she got out of the car, she felt the odd freedom of nothing to carry but a nonstick loaf pan—no groceries, no diaper bag, no baby. She reveled in the buoyancy of being an unencumbered body. But as she approached her small white house, she could see the box waiting for her on the front steps. Dread replaced lightness. Perhaps it would be better not to know any more about her mother. Didn’t she already know enough?
    She hoisted the box up to her hip, carried it inside, and plunked it down on the kitchen table.

 
    VIOLET
    Violet led her mother by the hand from Madam Tang’s, through Chinatown, and back into more familiar territory, where they settled into an easy stroll down the sunny side of Park Row, part of the late-day stream of hucksters and shoppers spilling over from Chatham Square. As they made their way around the street’s curve, ahead of