"Who are you?" her mother asked. "I'm your daughter, Alice." "I know that. But I mean, who are you?" Her mother's eyes locked onto hers; she was clutching Alice's eyes. What did she mean, then? "I love you," Alice said. "Don't you know that?" "But who are you?" "Alice." "How did you find me? How did you know where to look?" "I'll always find you. Wherever you are, I'll find you." Her mother looked a little easier at that. She always thought she was in prison now, trapped somewhere, for a crime she couldn't remember. She felt, sometimes, that the charges were false. At other times the charges d