The Smoky Corridor

54

At the very same moment, in the French Quarter of New Orleans, an eight-year-old girl with caramel-colored skin and a bright yellow kerchief wrapped around her head strolled into her aunt’s kitchen.

The older woman was sipping chicory-flavored coffee from a demitasse cup and had been enjoying a freshly fried and lightly powdered beignet. She put them both aside when she saw the look in the little girl’s eyes.

“What is it, child?” the aunt asked in a whisper.

The little girl smiled. “The time has come, Auntie. We must travel north. Tonight. Now.”

“Connecticut?”

The child’s smile grew even broader. “Connecticut.”