On our backs, we traced Antarctica with our toes. Head nestled in beige carpet, I looked up at the pins she'd pushed into the plaster. Red for where we were; three blues made a line that led westward.
"That's where I'm going," she said, one hand brushing Japan. I rolled the green head of a pin over my thumb, letting my eyes drift eastward over coasts and continents. My gaze rested nowhere. She traced my chin. "And you?"
I looked back. How was I to know where years would take me? My fate was still not pinned upon the map.