Birthright

A single shoulder rose to the girl’s ear. “I couldn’t say. It’s your memory and not mine.” She eased around the perimeter of the table and arrived at another wooden chair, its cushion upholstered in a scratchy maroon fabric. As her hand came to rest on it, a spindly insect crawled over the peaks and valleys of her knuckles before making its way to safety in a pile of leatherback books.

She bit her lip, which was dry from the outdoor air.

“What are you doing with a map from 1935?”