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On the doorstep of a townhome in New York City, a basket is placed.
The doorbell rings.
There are footsteps, and then there are not.
It doesn't take that long for the small girl to open her eyes and start trying to squirm out of her blankets, looking around with bleary confusion.
Eventually she is disentangled, and sitting in her basket.
"Where'm I?" she wants to know. Her accent is strange - not American. Closer to Scottish than anything else, but not that close.
"Where'm I?" she wants to know. Her accent is strange - not American. Closer to Scottish than anything else, but not that close.
"Well, you're new here," Elizabeth says consideringly, "but you have to have come from somewhere. And the doorbell rang, and you were sleeping so you didn't do it, so somebody has to have rang it and then put you down and ran away."
"Yeah. So you're not a baby. So you came from somewhere and you weren't just born in front of my house. But you don't remember anything?"