*Hattie*

My frozen panic lingers as Charlie moves to the oak wardrobe at the back of her room, flipping through the dresses on wooden hangers. She bombards me with questions, but I don't answer a single one. My mind is consumed with only one thought: How the hell do I get home?

"You say you're from Seattle," she says, her back to me. "I've never heard of such a place. Where is it? And you're a Miller, you say? Are you related to the Millers of Beacon Hill?"

I say ...