Year of the Wolf

By Heather Heffner

THE ALVAREZ FAMILY DOESN’T TALK about the dark things that stalk them at night. They run. Now starting a new life in the bustling city of Seoul, South Korea, half-sisters Citlalli and Raina believe they are finally safe.

When Raina is kidnapped by a black-winged vampyre and whisked away to a mysterious spirit world, Citlalli is done running. However, the truth is more terrifying than she ever imagined. A supernatural war rages in the streets of Seoul between the shapeshifting Were Nation and the venomous Vampyre Court over control of the spirit world. If she is to discover what both sides want with her sister, then Citlalli must join one. If she is to turn the tide in a hopeless struggle, then she must shift.

Even if it means becoming more beast than human.

Even if it means changing the fate of the spirit world forever.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Heather Heffner
• Release date: Jan 15, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301311545

Heather Heffner

HEATHER HEFFNER was born in Seattle, Washington, where she grew up being dragged along on endless hikes by her well-meaning parents. Luckily, her brother was forced to come, too, and they ended up storytelling to entertain themselves. Heather's never given it up since, and now she can't think of anything better than imagining a thousand-page-long epic (and maybe even going for a hike, after).Heather is the author of the dark epic fantasy book, THE TRIBE OF ISHMAEL (Afterlife Chronicles #1), about a boy who accidentally boards a train bound to Hell, and the urban fantasy book, YEAR OF THE WOLF (Changeling Sisters #1), about a girl who faces off against supernatural evil in Seoul, South Korea. You can read all about her adventures, or more likely, misadventures, on her blog:https://heatherheffner.blogspot.com/

Book preview

Prologue: An Old Wives’ Tale

~Citlalli~

Within the first week of moving to Seoul, South Korea, I got lost. Purposefully, of course. I wandered down the busy street of Insa-Dong with my head craned up, trying to count the number of colorful umbrellas hanging above me. I poked at eel tanks and giggled. I made faces at crescent-eyed masks. One street vendor was making candy. He patted the doughy strings back and forth, flinging them faster and faster, until I was sure they would snap.

OMG! he cried in mock shock, holding up the finished taffy. Tourists snapped pictures and laughed. I didn’t. That one reference to the popular American catch-phrase wiped the smile clean off my face. Suddenly, I missed Papi. I missed my brother and sisters.

We’re a big family. Five—actually, I mean—four of us Alvarez kids in all. I don’t know if I should count Marisol. She might still be out there. However, she disappeared a while ago, and we don’t know where she is.

First there’s Miguel. The eldest of us. The wise-mouth. He did horribly in high school, but if anyone’s got street smarts, it’s him. He’s got my back, and I’ve got his. When I broke Mami’s heirloom mirror, he said he dared me to do it. Mami couldn’t have been happier. If there’s anyone she loves to critique, it’s Miguel.

Then there’s Raina. She’s the youngest, the surprise child. Growing up, she was my best friend. We were only one year apart, but since I was older, I could order her to do anything.

Others found her just as fascinating, but for a different reason. They always stared at her black, silky hair and porcelain skin. I hated that hair, glossy, straight as an arrow. It meant she was prettier than me. But to other people, it meant something else.

"Your sister…Raina…she looks Asian," is how the conversation would usually start.

Yeah. She’s half-Korean.

But… It slowly dawns on them. Oh.

Those small ohs hunched Raina’s shoulders and made her look like a deer checking in all directions before stepping out into the open. The child of an affair. Easy to pick out, exciting to whisper about.

Hey, Raina won’t have to worry about sticking out anymore, Miguel had said when we’d first heard about the move to Korea. My brother and I have that in common: we always speak without thinking. Raina’s ears had reddened, and she’d stared hard at the television screen.

Daniella is the smartest of all of us. She’s four years older than me. She picks up Korean faster than a parrot, and if I’m not quick enough to evade her after school, then she’ll corner me for hours of Korean drills.

"Try again. Annyeong haseyo. Hello, are you at peace? It’s the simplest of greetings. Again. Come on, Citlalli, you sound like you have a Texas drawl."

Since Mami’s always busy at the Alvarez Family Restaurant in Itaewon, Daniella has assumed a mothering role that would make any ajumma proud. She keeps Raina and me running. Perhaps if we’re always busy, then we won’t think about Marisol.

If that’s what Daniella thinks, then she’s wrong. The fact that she’s taken Marisol’s place as eldest sister reminds me that we don’t have one anymore. Every fumble of chopsticks, every hour spent shivering in the cold school hallways, reminds me that this is the new, Marisol-less life. Yet most of the time, South Korea feels like a dream. It’s as if I fell asleep and woke up in this weird, other place where everyone speaks a language I can’t understand, and smog cloaks the city at dusk, making the sun an angry red eye.

I remember very vividly now, that seemingly insignificant detail, the day everything began to change.

***

Steak’s ready! Come and get it! Miguel brushed through the screen door carrying a plate red with steaming, juicy tenderloin. Raina and I yipped around his heels like pups. Our old dog, Diego, looked at us grumpily. The air conditioner was on full blast, which would keep our nasty apartment neighbor, Mr. Lee, awake for hours. Just another muggy night in Santa Fe. That was back when we still lived with Papi. He was out at the casino tonight. Again.

As usual, Miguel gave me first dibs.

Don’t be greedy, Raina. Go set the table. He ignored her crestfallen look and waved the plate in Marisol’s face.

Mumm. Look at this. I guess I’ll let you have the biggest piece, rrrriight here!

She glanced away disinterestedly and returned to texting. Don’t be ridiculous, Miguel. I don’t want that.

He remained standing there with the proffered plate. Although he might huff about doing the cooking, claiming it to be too girly, we all knew he secretly loved it. No one insulted his food. No one.

Listen, I get that you’re going bulimic so you’ll make it on prom court, but what’ll you do if they put that crown on your head and you fall over under the weight of it? You look like a skeleton. Citlalli could snap you in half, couldn’t you?

I giggled and reached for her arm.

Don’t touch me! The warning came too late. I had already recoiled, staring at my frost-white fingertips. Her skin was cold. Like death.

And he swoops in! Miguel dangled the steak in her face, and Marisol bolted up, madder than a hornet.

I told you, I don’t want it!

Wow, Miguel. Your cooking made someone literally flee the room, Daniella commented, plopping down to replace Marisol’s Cosmo magazines with homework. Raina snickered.

Hey you! What’re you laughing at? Miguel swatted her over the head. Didn’t I tell you to set the table?

Raina looked to me. I turned away, my cheeks reddening. I could pretend not to notice it, believe that Miguel ordered her around because she was the youngest, but we were both getting to the age where we understood something else was going on. Raina was a you. I was his shadow, his favorite girl in the world.

Lay off her, Miguel, Daniella said, not looking up from her geometry. It’s Marisol we should be concerned with. Did you see her skin? So white. Like chalk. When she was coming up the stairs the other day, I swear it was a skull coming towards me. She’s—a ghost.

She doesn’t eat anything, Raina piped up. I hear her puking at night.

White skin, huh? Miguel purposefully overrode her. Damn, I knew Mami spread her legs open to a gook, but looks like before him the buffet was open to some cracker!

Miguel! Shut up! Daniella hissed.

What? It’s true. He stabbed the steak. Viciously. There’s no nice way to say it.

You’re just saying that for shock. You know you can’t talk about this in front of them.

What? In front of my sister? Or in front of the present the gook left for us?

Raina started to cry. She was nine years old, but she wasn’t stupid. She knew which one of us the present referred to. Daniella’s voice was cracking, she was shaking so hard—the way she sounds before she gets really, scary angry. Miguel kept stabbing the steak. I slipped away.

Marisol! Miguel’s making Raina unhappy again! It was happening so often these days. I’d started to count. Every time Papi decided to stay out at the casino instead of spending an evening with his family, Miguel lashed out. Something was keeping Papi away from us. Someone.

I shook my head. Raina was so gentle, the perfect playmate. She hated sports, but if I wanted to play soccer, then she would be goalie. She’d clumsily teeter up the playground slide after me, even after I’d yell, CANNONBALL! and come steamrolling back down. The only thing I could never best her at was swimming. Raina would propel off the pool wall as gracefully as a dolphin. I would flounder around and choke on a lot of water.

I turned the bathroom doorknob. Mari, did you hear—?

She whirled around in the bathtub guiltily, as if caught swiping jewelry. Her lips were crimson from the pomegranate she’d been stuffing in her mouth. I stared at her in horror, and for a second, I thought I saw a bite mark, ruby-red, caressing the skin beneath her ear. Then her hair fell over it.

Get out of here, Citlalli! she bellowed, reaching from the tub.

I was gone before she’d finished the sentence. I had never experienced anything like that. When I’d looked at my eldest sister, I’d felt—fear.

She’s a ghost, Daniella had said.

That was how it all began.

***

Lost, girl?

The ajumma grinned at me, displaying yellow, disjointed teeth that sprouted from her gums like dandelions. These were tough women, Mami had told me. They’d balanced this country on their backs during the Korean War. During the dark days. Now they wheeled carts and patiently squatted day after day on the streets, waiting for crumpled won bills in exchange for oranges and sweet potatoes.

I stood out here as much as I had back in America. A cashmere sweater. Skinny jeans. Way too many accessories. And a big mane of thick, black curls. When I say big, I mean big. Back in the States, classmates always complained that they couldn’t see around my hair.

The ajumma clucked like a disapproving hen, rubbing her fingers curiously up and down my dark skin. The stream of Korean babble was white noise to me, but I did catch the word chip. House.

"Won Sujin-nim…chip, she said again, and I gathered that we were going to the house of someone named Won Sujin-nim. Family names came first in Korea. Also, status and age were highly important. For a woman of her age to be addressing Won Sujin with the honorary nim" meant that this Sujin must be a figure of great importance.

It turned out that Sujin used to be a teacher, and she spoke a bit of English from her Korean War days. She was the queen of the streets, sitting in a shack crafted of scrap metal and surrounded by women sorting ginseng and mushrooms. Yet Sujin herself was quite warm. She had shock-white hair and pinched cheeks. Every command was said with a smile, and you didn’t dare disobey.

Sit.

I crouched at her knee.

Where you live?

Yongsan Si.

You long way from home.

My sister sent me to shop at Dongdaemun Market. I wandered.

Sujin nodded. She didn’t seem concerned. You have money for taxi?

I’ll take the subway.

A gnarly finger pointed at the sky. It gets dark.

Yes.

She regarded me for a moment. Never once did her left hand cease sorting the ginseng, those funny brown roots that smelled so earthy.

How old?

Me? I’m thirteen—fourteen years old, I corrected myself. In Korea, the nine months of pregnancy counted toward a child’s first year.

Her cheeks pulled tighter together, if possible. After today, do not go out alone. No more.

Why?

She leaned in close, smelling of mealy persimmons. She placed a hand on my knee. Because there is a Pale Tiger.

I must have looked surprised, because she sat back in her rocking chair, nodding to herself. "Yes. Waygook mother does not know."

Waygook. ForeignerStranger.

"Sunsaeng-nim," I said, using the term for teacher, there are no tigers in South Korea.

"Pale Tiger, she stressed. You do not know story. I know a woman. This woman has four beautiful children. This woman works every day, selling rice cakes."

The other ajummas had fallen silent, so in the hut there was little more sound than the scrap-scrap of ginseng being frisked across the table. Sujin went on:

One day, woman comes to the top of a hill. She meets a Pale Tiger. The Pale Tiger asks for a rice cake. Afraid she will be eaten, the woman gives it to Pale Tiger. She walks on.

Sujin took a deep breath, expelling it into the dark air with colors, reminisces of the past:

"The woman comes to the top of the second hill. Pale Tiger is waiting. This time, Pale Tiger wants three rice cakes. Heart heavy, the woman scraps the bottom of the basket to give Pale Tiger what she wants.

"Coming back home, she meets Pale Tiger. Pale Tiger wants nine rice cakes. Woman says there is no more.

‘Give me more rice cakes,’ Pale Tiger says, ‘or I will eat your children.’

"The woman begs for her children’s lives. Pale Tiger eats her and then follows the trail back to her house.

"The daughters bolt and lock the door. Pale Tiger scratches, asking to come in.

‘Why do you lock me out, children?’ she asks. ‘It’s Umma.’

"Youngest daughter does not believe it. But Pale Tiger dips her hand into rice cake powder and shows them through the keyhole. White, like Umma’s. Overjoyed, the eldest daughter opens the door. Pale Tiger eats her.

The other three children run to the roof. They pray to the gods to send a rope, so they can climb away to heaven. The gods answer their prayer. Pale Tiger prays for a rope to catch them. The gods send a rope, but it is frail and snaps. Pale Tiger hits the earth, and her body falls apart into many pieces. But blood stains her lips, the blood of her people. So she is cursed. Dead, but not dead. Full, but always hungry. Never here, but never gone.

She smiled wide at me. There was a persimmon stain on her front tooth, but in the dim light, it looked a red of a darker hue, an ominous shade. I ran from the shack.

I’m seventeen years old now. It’s been four years since my encounter with Sujin. But out of all the strange and unsettling things that happened my first year in Korea, that story haunts me the most.

Part 1: Pup

Chapter 1: Subway

~Citlalli~

We sat with our backs against the pillar, not talking. I didn’t want to think about how late it was, didn’t want to think about the possibility that we’d missed the last subway home.

Raina’s head drooped against her chest. She looked like a pale rose petal about to drop off the stem. So often she seemed too weary to stand these days, unable to fight back against the thing claiming her. I resisted the urge to prop up her lolling head. I didn’t want that mark on her neck touching me.

The loudspeaker blared to life, and we both jumped. Even though the voice spoke Korean, I could still pick out Incheon.

Is our subway coming? Raina asked tiredly.

No, it’s the one going to the airport.

Oh. She sank onto a floor littered with gum wrappers and scattered coffee cups, the last of her strength seeping from her.

My voice caught. I know today’s visit wasn’t successful, but we’re gonna find something to cure you, Raina.

It doesn’t matter. She stared into the impenetrable darkness of the tunnel. It’s a curse, Citlalli. A curse on our family. First it took Marisol. Now me. Her silken head buried itself in her legs. Why me?

Because it’s my fault, I thought but couldn’t speak. If I hadn’t been so childishly upset over Miguel’s return that night, then we never would have snuck into that club. Raina hadn’t wanted to go, but I’d made her. And whatever was watching us, stalking our family, had taken full advantage of my stupidity. When we’d left, a bite mark had been on Raina’s neck. A bite mark that had bruised to ugly maroon.

Mami took Raina to the doctors during the day. However, we both grew tired of the puzzlement, the lack of explanation for why her body was wilting of its own accord.

However, Mami didn’t know that a bite mark had shown up on Marisol’s neck, too. I did. So I began taking Raina to shamans and faith healers at night. Shamanistic healing still had roots in Korea. However, trying to sort fakes from the authentic was a whole other headache. Raina’s time was running out.

Three years. Raina gave a wan smile. Only three more years of this. That was how long it had taken before Marisol had withered away completely.

How can you give up? I snapped. Sure, this is going to be difficult, but we know what to expect this time! I’m not losing another sister!

She looked at me with bitter pain in her eyes that could freeze seas. "Maybe you don’t understand because you can’t feel how freakin’ painful this is! The nausea that climbs in my throat when I eat anything other than fruit. The cold that eats holes through me at night, the strange things I see— She took a deep, calming breath. Do you think I should tell Mami about the hallucinations?"

No! She’ll lock you away. Being shut in a room with people in white isn’t what you need right now; you need answers. I paced back and forth. I couldn’t believe this was happening again. What had happened to Marisol seemed like a freak, surreal thing, hazed over by my youth. What was happening to Raina was alarmingly real.

We have to find Won Sujin.

She opened her eyes tiredly. Who?

This—old woman. I met her years ago, I said lamely, "but she knows things! The story she told me…I’ve never been able to put it out of my mind. She looked at me, and she knew something, Raina."

Knew about what?

The Pale Tiger. The word was a puff of frost upon the still air.

A scuffle echoed at the end of the subway tunnel. We froze, watching shadows dance in the small patch of light.

I don’t think our subway’s coming, Raina said uneasily. We should get a taxi.

Agreed. We bolted away from the pillar and half-walked, half-ran toward the stairs.

An old homeless man stumbled into the circle of light. He was clutching his stomach, and blood dribbled from his mouth. Stepping up behind him were two shadowy figures: men, their faces hidden in the dark.

Holy shit. Citlalli, let’s go. Come on! Raina’s fingers skittered on my arm like fleeing insects.

They’re going to kill him. The moment I said the words, my fear solidified into something more graspable: anger. They’re going to kill him, Raina!

There are security cameras everywhere. Come on, let’s go! We’ll find someone to help! Raina tugged at me, but I didn’t move. Citlalli!

One of the men punched the homeless man in the stomach again. His fist flashed fast, as if it were made of smoke. The other man laughed, a high-pitched cackle. I couldn’t stop staring at the man bleeding on the floor. He didn’t make a whimper, his breath coming out all funny. But his eyes looked like a panicked rabbit’s. My throat closed. Helpless. Always so helpless. What had happened to poor Raina was my fault, and now all I could do was sit back and watch her waste away.

Citlalli, I swear, if you do something stupid…

I’ll just make some noise, scare them off, I told her white face before I tore away. However, what came out was far more than a shout.

Hey! GET OFF HIM! My snarl rolled like thunder, preceding my charging feet as I dashed headlong at the assailants. My anger funneled my vision, and then I bulldozed straight into the shorter one, smashing him against the wall.

Fingers buried in my collar, and the taller man tore me off his partner. He whirled me around, locking my head beneath his arm. I caught sight of the homeless man as I spun. He wasn’t moving.

The murderer bent close, and I could feel his hot breath smelling of rancid meat. That, combined with the wet fur scent enveloping his jacket, over-powered my senses and left me gagging. The man tightened his grip around my neck. His nose ran up and down my skin. He was…sniffing me!

I screeched again and struggled to pull him over to the subway tracks. I didn’t know what I was going to do. I had some wild idea of throwing both of us over, but then he bit me.

This wasn’t the tender caress nipping Raina’s neck, but a hound tearing at his favorite bone. I felt sharp canines slide through my skin like knives, and I screamed and screamed and attempted to tear my poor neck out from under him. My blood splattered over our shoes.

From far away, I heard the loudspeaker surge to life: chimes, announcing the subway’s approach.

My gaze slid to the floor. Then I realized I was falling toward concrete, while cool air lapped at the wound on my neck. He’d let me go.

A hand slid into my pocket and left a curled-up note inside.

For when you need to find me, a deep voice murmured in my ear, and then he was gone.

Footsteps pounded the surface. Raina had alerted the security guards, and now they spread around me, putting up yellow tape, just as the subway rolled to a stop. Startled passengers stopped dead in their tracks at the unexpected welcome. I closed my eyes. People’s voices. The subway was filled with life again.

Chapter 2: The New Apartment

~Citlalli~

I remembered before we came to Korea.

Mami burst into the courtroom like a nighthawk riding the wings of a storm. I stared at her, unable to move. None of us had seen Mami in many years. After the divorce, she’d traveled overseas to spread her restaurant business.

My daughter! So hysterical, Mami could barely speak. She settled for clawing at Papi’s chest instead. Marisol! O, Marisol, my eldest daughter! How could you lose her? Why?

The lawyers tried to separate them. Put Mami and Papi in the same room, and they were a spitting mongoose and cobra no one wanted to get in the middle of.

Raina sat up straight, vying for Mami’s eye. Mami ignored her.

Was it the drink? She punctuated each accusation with a slap on his arm. "Was it the gambling? Was it all those dolled-up señoritas you couldn’t keep your hands off even with the weight of a wedding ring upon your finger? What made you lose my daughter? Ay? AY?"

That struck Papi’s nerve. "At least I didn’t get one of those mythical señoritas pregnant! What are you, woman? At least I was public about my habits. If I was at a casino, I was gambling. If I was at a bar, I was drinking. But you, if you were at a business meeting, you were either doing business or screwing some foreign client!"

She was scornful. You were so drunk those days you couldn’t put two and two together. And now, you couldn’t even see your daughter disappearing before your eyes. This is about Marisol, you stupid drunk! This is about the girl you were given custody of! Look what happened! Mami began to choke on big, gulping tears.

Mr. Mejía-Alvarez. Mrs. Mejía-Alv— The balding lawyer had waded in too far.

"It’s just Alvarez! Escucha, hijo de puta…" She rattled off in Spanish.

This is different, Ileana! As usual, when too many eyes began to fix on him, Papi started stuttering. W-wouldn’t e-eat anything but f-fruit. S-stared at one spot for h-hours—

How many times did you take her to the doctor? Mami thundered. She knew full well his fear of public speaking and would exploit it to the fullest. Zero times, I expect. You were too drunk to know any of the symptoms. You heard what you know from my daughters!

I was sick of this talk of my daughters, as if we were the prize cattle stock of her restaurant. She didn’t even include Miguel. Not surprising, considering little love remained between them. But in his absence, I had to speak up.

So? You didn’t even know she had been sick until she went missing.

Mami closed her eyes. My older brother could be likened to a wolf: solitary and aloof. I had the opposite reputation. After one too many mojitos, Mami was fond of referring to me as that little mosquito, always biting me in the ass.

Citlalli, stay out of this, please.

You weren’t around to know anything about our situation! Daniella was giving me her famous owl glare, but I ignored her. Papi was, and we were all scared together, and now you come marching back from frickin’ Chinatown or wherever and act like you’ve been here all along?

Mami didn’t say anything. She just looked at me. My other sisters and I were ushered out of the courtroom, but I knew what that look meant. Yes. She would do exactly that.

***

We were moving to South Korea. Mami had badgered the judge into giving her custody of us. With her army of lawyers and the crisp tap-tap of her three-inch stilettos when she grew too impatient, Mami always got what she wanted. Except us, originally. The judge had thought it would upset the stability of five adolescents to move across the world to live with their business-minded mother. However, with the disappearance of Marisol, and Papi’s impressive gambling debt, Mami had the upper hand. She pocketed us as if we were her new favorite dolls to play with. For now.

Not one letter. Not one phone call. Not one email—oh no, wait. There was that Christmas E-card with a dancing elf. I hate elves, I remembered telling Raina.

You didn’t exactly make it easy for her to reach out to you, Raina had said unsympathetically. You just took Miguel’s side without questioning. You never listened to her.

I learned that she and Mami had kept long email conversations over the years. That stung even worse; of course Mami would keep in contact with the one daughter who hadn’t been Papi’s.

When I told Miguel, we broke into Raina’s email account and responded to Mami’s latest message, something along the lines of: Mami, you only stay in Korea because you can’t make it in America, and now you’re making us suffer with you. I hate you. Goodbye.

Miguel came up with most of it. Mischievous glee dissolved into dread as I watched him type.

You’re not coming with us, are you? Miguel was twenty-one years old, safely beyond the grasp of Mami’s pearlescent nails.

Nope, but that doesn’t mean I don’t know what I’m writing. Miguel punched the send button savagely. She’s splitting up our family again, Citlalli. First she hurt Papá when she had that other man’s baby. Now she’s jumping the gun and taking you and Daniella far away. Hell, we don’t even know if Marisol’s dead!

Just lost, I said softly. Although with her odd diet, I couldn’t imagine her surviving long on her own.

Don’t give into that woman, Miguel said. I’ll find a way to bring you back to the States.

When Raina found out what we did, she went all pink and stuttered about how immature we were. She wasn’t my childhood best friend, then. She was my father. No wonder, they both seemed to have an awe of Mami.

I knew who the real queen worthy of admiration was: Marisol. Beige skin, tawny eyes like a tigress, smooth, jet-black hair—my eldest sister was gorgeous. She was the most graceful person I knew, gliding down stairs as if skating across water. Then her feet would hit the kitchen floor, and she would fall into rigidly straight tango lines.

The tango was her favorite dance, and she’d started a club at the local Santa Fe high school. I’d looked forward to joining. Not because I was any good at dancing, but because Marisol would commend me for trying. You never felt foolish attempting something in front of Marisol. She was a lively soul with soft words and a twinkling, bird-bright laugh. We would spend hours in her room, pouring over magazines and debating over which celebrity she would marry. Hugh Jackman? Rugged, but getting old. Jake Gyllenhal? Sweet, but too soft. Rafael Nadal? Sexy and athletic, but…

What if I fell in love with my dance partner? Marisol had asked, her eyes sparkling. "Now that would be romantic."

I’d agreed, although I could never shut out Raina’s voice from my head: predictable. When we were little, I would come up with ideas for imaginary games: A princess trapped in a castle with her evil queen mother! I was always the princess, of course. Raina would scrunch up her nose and say, No, too predictable.

Then I’d have to wait for her to dream up an epic storyline, which always left me speechless at the end: the man the princess loved ended up betraying her, so the princess sacrificed her life for the sake of the kingdom. We promised each other we’d grow up to live sensational lives like our childhood games. We’d have adventures, meet strange, wonderful people, and travel the world.

We’ll meet your people, Raina! I’d said without thinking. There was always that lost look on her face when we referred to her as Korean, not Chicana. It was what we saw when we looked at her. But in all of my scrutinizing