For me, she is just a silhouette, backlit in the framed window. She could be any woman, singular or composite, of the present or of the past, maybe just a mother in a window trying to make sense of her shape-shifting child disappearing into the fog. She studies the empty street and I turn to follow her gaze, wondering what she sees. Though no one is visible, or perhaps specifically because no on is visible, I conjure up the picture of that turn-of-the-century woman dawdling over the book cart on the sidewalk, pressing the book closed finally with a sigh of resignation, putting her hands on the buggy, beginning her walk home. She, like I, is haunted by the parting shot of the heroic woman Slessor, who as the chapter ended sat looking over the cradle of the surviving newborn girl and, as I imagine, staring out her window at the scenes of busy life proceeding there in the broiling sun of West Africa, as if the world would insistently continue on its way—oblivious to this stark tragedy—and wondering at the baby Okyon girl's birth story, how it will be told to the child as the years pass, and whether the narrative will be recast to fit with her as the girl grows, always tweaked and twisted slightly in order to serve as retrospective confirmation of behavior, a predictor. "It is no wonder she has turned out stubborn," the Okyon elders will say, remembering her birth story. Or, if she is too docile, they will explain, "Of course, she is a timid woman given the way she arrived in this world." They will emphasize how she stubbornly clung to life when her brother gave up or recast the birth story to play up the newborn's early ostracizing, telling how the baby was beaten down and cast out so early on this first day of her life. Miss Slessor, the protector, who perhaps absently rocks the cradle with the tip of her bare left foot as she thinks about these things, will wonder at the value of a birth story, will think about whether she can craft an empowering one from this sequence of events and, hearing the echo of the train riders as they circle Baltimore, now so fierce and combative six vodka shots into the night that a whiff of their battles carry across the sea—the way infectious ideas do sometimes travel on the wind—will wonder, If she tells this child her birth story just right, can it be so? Do words precede action? Is it essential for her to string together a compelling series of words, a perfect narrative, in order to help the girl imagine another way of being? Can she will good character into being with words alone, Slessor wonders, true words, but words presented just so?