As you near the front of the queue, you can finally make out the words displayed on the front of the streetcar: Pasadena. You glance at the return address on the postcard you hold. “8871 Catalina Ave, Pasadena, Calif.” You let out a small sigh, relieved you’ve found the correct route.

You board the streetcar. An hour and a half later, you step off the car at the corner of Lake Avenue and Colorado Boulevard. Thanks to a helpful passenger, you know that Celia’s address lies about one and a half miles to the north. You set off on foot, and thirty minutes later you’re standing on a quiet residential street outside of a modest one-story home. The afternoon sun has begun to fade, leaving the sky streaked with tendrils of pink and purple that reflect off of the home’s grey sloped roof.

As you walk toward the home, apprehension sets in. You left in such a rush—perhaps you should have waited a few weeks. Maybe you ought to have written to Celia about your plans, so she could prepare for your arrival. You hardly remember your cousin, after all, yet here you are on her doorstep . . .

By the time you reach the front door, you’re not at all convinced that coming here was such a good idea. You take a steadying breath. After a moment’s contemplation, you . . .