The midday light is low and oppressive as I trek up a hill covered in yellowing grass. From here, I can see the main drag of Fraudville — a strip of archaic shops, a library, and a drug store, clustered around a railroad track that tears through the landscape like a black stitch. I can smell the fringes of summer creeping forward, promising wet grass and honeysuckle...

The parlor drips with bourbon, amber light, flooding the french doors as the sun sinks into the sea. I work at my canvas as other patrons of the hostel pass through, lingering at the edge of the room to watch me. A postcard rests on the tray of my easel, which feels more imposing than the gaze of my uninvited audience...

The silver subway car barrels down the tunnel, slowing to a stop with a long screech. Posters plaster the walls of the station, peeling off to reveal a colorful mosaic of two giant fish and an arrangement of bright blue tiles that reads Delancey St. Adelaide swings her rucksack over her shoulder as she pushes her way onto the platform and finds an empty bench. In one hand, she clutches an extra pair of scuffed high tops, and in the other, she holds a letter...