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AMY BEARCE
AMY BEARCE

I was actually surprised this woman spoke to me in English.
Lots of little old ladies had struck up conversations with me in
Italian the past few weeks. I could barely say a word in Italian
beyond hello, thank you, and please, but maybe I looked at home
here. Brown hair, olive skin, and what my mom calls a “Roman

nose.” She says it’s a marker of nobility, but all I know is, it’s a
honker, and old people kept talking to me in Italian.
The lady held out a coin. “Take this one. Go on, now. It’s

meant for wishing.”
The deep bronze of the metal reflected the sun. It looked
hefty. “Where’s that from? I’ve never seen a coin like that be-
fore.” It wasn’t a euro or an American coin. My hands itched
to hold it.

She smiled again, and it brought a twinkle to her eye. “Oh,
it came from here and there. Much like you these days, eh?”
A chill raced down my back. “What?”

“Your parents are clearly not from here.” She gestured to
my parents, interviewing a mustached man across the square.
My mom wore a backpack, and my dad had on his travel vest
holding his fancy recording equipment in the big pockets.
The weird palm reader smiled. “And you’ve visited all the

big tourist sites.”
Okay, time to go. Eying my little brothers, I took a step
away from the woman. “Yeah, well, speaking of my parents, I’d

better go.”
She laughed loudly, turning heads across the square. “You’re
in no danger from me. Here. Take the coin. But you can’t keep

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