I am Dorothy, and I am off to see the wizard.

I slide into the taxi. The rusty cold metal of the car door brushes against my arm for a second as my hand gropes for a seat blindly. My fingers feel a leathery fabric and automatically clutch it as I hoist my knees up onto the seat and duck inside the vehicle. Sinking into the seat, I lean my head forward, keeping my messy ponytail away from the seatback, just like my mother taught me. The hard seat pokes my back muscles, all pins and needles, and the rough surface itches as if pieces of straw are stuck down my shirt. The faint smell of cigarettes on the seats immediately makes me dislike the driver for trying to kill his clients with secondhand smoke. I quickly scroll down the window so the cool air can disinfect the car interior.

"Where are you heading?"

The first words I hear from a native come out of the mouth of a smoker.

A plastic window separates the front and back seats of the vehicle. Although part of it is covered with yellow newspaper clippings and the driver's ID picture, most of it is see through. The defendant appears as suspicious as his habits. He wears a dark cap and collar that shroud his face in shadow. The dimly lit bulb in the car sheds no light on the creature's character, although the plastic window is telling. I can't see any point to one unless the driver is either very self conscious or very paranoid. I wonder if the window is bulletproof.

Losing interest, I pull my hood over my head and lean my head against the seat. Luxury has to take precedence over hygiene. I look out through the open window, trying to differentiate between the sky and the ground when they all look the same. The bright yellow and orange headlights streak the dark, dim space around the taxi and hit the highway gravel. The trees, tall and gangling, peer at us pass by through their parted branches. They bow and wave at us as we drive down the yellow-lit road in a yellow car.

Mama asks me to close the window, but I do not listen. The night wind is cold, but it is alive, and I let it caress my face and hair before closing it a tiny bit. There's less of a cigarette smell now, thanks to me. Now I can tuck my knees in under my chin and make believe that I'm drowning in poppies.

I wake up, and we are here. Someone gives me my suitcase, an old hand-me-down. Its wheels were once black and shiny but now they're burnt and peeling, and I feel sorry for them. They roll over the ragged pavement with a lot of noise, rattling and shaking and feeling sorry for themselves. I no longer feel sorry for them when I have to carry the bag over the stairs. I ask for the elevator, but there is none.

I wipe my sticky palms on the coarse denim of my jeans, ironing the faded material over my thighs. The friction warms my clammy hands, the soothing heat wrapping around my fingers. I repeat the motion with more vigor. My sweat dampens the thin jean fabric, stretching it out and molding it over my legs. But when I let go, it loosens. The sweat I had kneaded into it dissipates into the air, and my jeans revert back to its original wrinkly condition.

I'm standing in front of the door of the apartment complex. It's tucked in the corner of the floor, and I had trouble finding it. While I wait for someone to hurry up the stairs and open the door, I look around. I remember seeing the solemn gray walls and desolate stairs in documentaries.

Someone comes up with mother and brother, and he unlocks the door. I am the last one in, but I am the first one to take off my scruffy sneakers and vault across the hall. I run barefoot across the apartment, which is so much smaller than it used to be, into the dim room at the hallway's end. Putting a big smile on my face, I run into the bedroom.

"Grandma, I'm here!"

She is lying on the bed, her doll-like head resting on bamboo pillows. Hearing my voice, she raises her eyes and turns slightly to look at me. I stand tall and gangly in my too-tight prickly orange tee and too loose worn jeans with a pink hoodie in my hand. There's not much of a Dorothy in me, and I'm more scarecrow than ever.

But I'm not the only one.

I see her emaciated frame, hidden by her head of gray threadlike hair. Her clothes hang off of her skin like laundry sheets, and where her bosom and fat should be lie empty bones and skin.

But I do not think about it, because she smiles at me, her giant black eyes shiny and sparkling in the dark, and says,

"There are red bean pops in the freezer."

I am not Dorothy, and I wear torn up sneakers on my feet.

But I am home.