Three months after Daniel left me for his secretary, my eight-year-old daughter Amy and I were living in a motel. He had emptied our joint account, changed the locks, and allowed me to take only what he called “personal necessities.” With almost nothing left, I spent my final ten dollars at a garage sale on thirty-three porcelain frogs because Amy loved The Frog Prince. The elderly seller, Martha, became strangely interested when I mentioned growing up near Pine Street. She seemed to recognize me, but said nothing more.

The next day, Amy arranged the frogs across our tiny motel table and proudly announced she had created a kingdom. Then one frog slipped from her hands and broke. Inside was an old photograph of me at eight years old. On its back, my father had written, “For whenever you need somewhere to begin again.” Beneath his words, Martha had added a message of her own: “Now follow the map.” Inside the largest frog waited a brass key, a hand-drawn map, and another photograph.