What is there?” “Tristan. Hear me then, now, before I take one step to establish my origin, or secure my rights. “These are the sort of things that aren’t supposed to happen. 272 < 34 > EPILOGUE She paced the Manhattan neighborhood, her backpack swinging, marveling at the austere buildings gleaming silver in their starkness. When my father died, and we were left alone in Jersey, I was quite a long time deciding whether I would go in for singing professionally or try painting. The stretch of red dirt disappeared into a stretch of trees like Van Gogh’s painting.
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