“Who are you?” she snarled, and I was briefly taken aback by her tone. “Imonie,” I said, and took a step closer to her. “Imonie, it’s me.” She recognized my voice. Her mouth fell open. The knife tumbled from her grip. She suddenly looked grieved, like she wanted to weep. “Clementine?” I didn’t respond, but I was satisfied. If the woman who had raised me had failed to identify me, then no one would. The mountain wind rushed through the pines, tangling my hair. And I smiled.
