I moved eleven hours from the only room I ever shared with my twin. Forty-two years of breathing the same air, then suddenly I wasn't.
The disposable camera turned up in a box marked KITCHEN. Three shots left, and I've been carrying it in my coat pocket like a question.
First morning heading to my new job, I found a folded note under my wiper blade. I stood there in the frost assuming the worst.
'Welcome to the building,' it read. 'I'm in 4B if you ever need sugar or just someone to sit with.' Dolores, underlined twice.
I called my sister from the parking lot and read her the note word for word. She laughed the laugh that sounds like mine, except from eight hundred miles away.
'You're going to be fine,' she said. I believed her, or maybe I just needed to.
I used one of the three shots on that note, there on the dash. Maybe that's what starting over really means — letting yourself be found by someone you haven't met yet.