Rose is not from our convent. When we ask her about her time before here she tells about the little school beyond the city—few of us have been past the gate, let alone beyond the city—she tells us about how tall the trees are. "Higher than the highest building," she says. Her face explodes with life at the memory and her hand scoops above her head like a rainbow forming to show us the scope of so much space. Afterward Rabbit and I cling to the window glass, our fingers marking the cold glass. In the hot air that pools from our mouths we etch our names in the glass. We watch the darkened skyline, trying to transport ourselves beyond the smoke stakes, or the whistle and screech of the train, to the town where Rose grew up.

She was named Rose for the convent, like we are all Ursula's, but I am convinced that she is Rose because she is the only one who can make the yellow buds bloom in the dead garden. Even Father Urselle's eyes widen at the spectacle, as though witnessing a miracle first hand. Something barren and wasting away suddenly full of life and color. Rabbit and I are just passed seven, and Rose is nearing fourteen. The tradition of the house is the find a formal nickname at seven, it's something you must choose, or Father Urselle will choose it for you.

Since Rabbit and I are the only ones our age in the dorm we decide to pick animal names. I cannot reminder why we choose to do this, but I can imagine that one of the large books in the library with colored pictures probably had something to do with it.

"I want to be…. Rabbit," she says. My mind wants to put an image of her stroking the glossy pages of the book, her tiny hands brushing the white fur captured on the page.