Every Tuesday and Thursday at dawn, I rode the 57 Bus into Kenmore Square–home of Fenway Park, the Citgo Sign, and Landsdowne Street, the center of Boston’s nightlife. By the time the sun peaked through the gray buildings on Commonwealth Avenue, I’d persuaded myself into believing I’d made the right decision moving back to America, to Boston, a place that had once for me, held so much promise. Heading toward my class filled with budding engineers, I could believe my life was still clipping along, following its intended path. But this certainty only lasted half an hour. By the time I switched to the 8 Bus and, got off at the corner of Huntington and Ruggles, I knew I’d need another fiction to get by. When my sister and I were sixteen, we visited Boston for the first time, and …
