A/N – Wow… Your reviews are wonderful and overwhelming. Thank you! I'm so glad that you like this piece – it's super fun to write! And, just so you know, all of the standard disclaimers apply. Want to archive it? Just ask nicely (and send chocolate).

On with the show:

Perhaps the first model was too obscure. Perhaps you as a reader are saying that it was merely a coincidence, that it is impossible to deduce a pattern from one brief interaction. And it is certainly plausible to say that this is a fair assessment.

But what if there is another more obvious example? Something simpler - more blatant – that requires a little less stretching on the part of your imagination.

Try this:

A little girl of about ten skips into the public library on a sunny and mild June morning. Her hair is ash blonde but shows hints of red under the glow of the overhead lights. She's pulled it back into a ponytail with some degree of haste, as a few wisps escape haphazardly and fall over her ears and forehead. She is what most would label as "cute" with her delicate, pixie features and pale skin, but she carries an air about her that indicates she is oblivious to such observation and she is dressed in true tomboy fashion, wearing torn jeans and a dark blue baseball jersey that looks as though she stole it from an older brother.

"Not too far, Allie," chides the voice of her mother as the little girl makes a beeline for the children's section and the Little House on the Prairie books she has committed to memory in her many re-readings of them.

(You see it now, don't you, reader? You're already seeing where this is headed and yet you still don't believe. But you will. Read on.)

The little girl's response to her mother is a casual wave of acknowledgement over her shoulder as she continues her forward progress. Meanwhile, her mother shakes her head in that resigned manner unique to those of a maternal bent and leads her other daughter, a younger version of the ten-year-old sprite who has now flopped down on the floor in front of the paperback section, towards the mystery section to pick up another Agatha Christie caper.

There are small tables scattered throughout the children's section of the library. These tables have been built to accommodate the smaller statures of younger readers and are strewn with books and magazines that need to be shelved. Each table is accompanied by four brightly painted chairs in red and yellow and blue and green, each showing the scuffs and wear from years of use.

In one of the chairs – a red one - sits a grown woman. She is perhaps in her late thirties with pretty features and dark hair that she has pinned back with a set of tortoise shell clips and she is flipping aimlessly through a book with a light blue cover, the title of which cannot be discerned. She is dressed in a prim manner that brings to mind an old-fashioned school marm or proper piano teacher and she seems out of place at first glance, a giant descended upon the Lilliputians. Yet further inspection reveals an innocent and almost childlike air about her, forged with a nervous and unsettled quality that renders her both welcoming and potentially threatening in the same breath. Still, she clearly means no harm to anyone, so engrossed is she in the novel in her hand and thus, no notice is taken of her. And on the floor nearby, young Allie pulls out a copy of Black Beauty and begins to thumb through in search of her favorite part. The two sit in silence, six feet between them, the only sound that of their breathing and the rustling of pages.

It isn't hard to believe that the young girl and grown woman may never have spoken, that each may have read her piece in silence and then vanished from the other's presence without so much as an acknowledging nod or smile. And yet that isn't what this is about. This example speaks to the power of coincidence and the ability of chance to alter the course of one's entire life. And yet despite the fact that this moment is so pivotal in the life of a young girl, what brings Allie to put Black Beauty back onto the shelf and rise to make her way over to the table where the woman reads a nameless novel is unclear. Perhaps she is drawn to the cover of a Beverly Cleary paperback that has been tossed onto the far edge of the table or perhaps she has decided to look for a new issue of Highlights magazine and stops by the table merely to adjust her messy ponytail (the wisps of hair in her face finally having reached the point of annoyance). The reason is unimportant in the long run; the action itself is the only thing that holds meaning, for it is that action that becomes the seed of something far larger than an innocent meeting between a childlike woman and a tomboy of a little girl.

It begins with a simple question spoken in a reedy, innocent voice:

"What'cha reading?" Allie asks the woman, having abandoned the Beverly Cleary book to study the woman before her. She is obviously confused to see an adult invade the territory of children and her eyes squint with curiosity. Still, she folds her hands politely before her on the table while she awaits a response.

The woman's dark eyes rise to meet the pale ones of the little girl, startled out of her reverie and (seemingly) surprised to be noticed at all. Something about the way she holds herself indicates that she was, perhaps, under the impression that she had vanished within the pages of the novel and had become invisible to passersby. It takes her an extra moment to focus her eyes, though her gaze is still far away when she speaks.

"It's called National Velvet," she tells little Allie in a voice that sounds very much like a third grade teacher. Thus, she is not giving the title, she is presenting it. Allie seems to note the difference and her face grows interested.

"What's it about?" the little girl frowns.

The woman purses her lips thoughtfully before speaking in clear and deliberate tones. "It's the story of a young girl who takes a horse that nobody wants and wins a big race on him."

"There's a horse in it?" Allie's attention has been fully piqued. She's at that age where horses fascinate her and she asks her parents almost daily if they can move out of the city onto a horse farm.

"A great big one," the woman smiles and some of the guardedness of her manner falls away, as though she realizes that the innocent girl before her poses no threat.

"Neat," Allie smiles. "But why does nobody want him?"

The woman shrugs. "I suppose because he's wild. But Velvet – that's the girl's name – she believes in him and she doesn't listen to any of the people that say that a girl has no place in a horse race. She knows that they can win."

Allie tilts her head to the side, allowing the woman's words to swirl around in her head while she tries to make sense of them. Finally, perplexed, she asks: "But why would people think that a girl couldn't ride in a race? Is it because she's a girl? Girls can do anything that boys can."

The woman's eyes light up at this statement and she chuckles aloud, which elicits a frown from Allie, who asks, "What did I say?"

The woman shakes her head and tells her in earnest, "It's nothing. You're right, my dear – girls can do anything that boys can and don't you ever let anyone tell you differently. If you have a dream, you go after it and don't let anyone stop you."
Allie smiles at this encouragement and announces proudly, "I'm going to be a cop just like my dad."

The woman nods respectfully. "I believe that you will make a fine police officer when you grow up. You already have the tenacity to be successful."

"What's tenacity?" Allie wrinkles her nose, curious.

"It means that you won't let anyone stand in your way," the woman tells her simply. "It means that once you've set your mind to something, you never give up."

"Oh," Allie breathes. "Neat."

"Allie!" her own mother calls from across the room. "Time to go!"

The little girl turns and nods to indicate that she's heard, then focuses her gaze back on the woman at the table and says, "So I have..."

She tries to wrap her tongue around the word "tenacity" again, but struggles.

"You're tenacious," the woman tells her kindly.

"Tenacious," Allie repeats it, rolling it around in her mouth like a piece of candy.

"Alexandra Eames, hurry up!" Allie's mother calls again.

"I guess I'd better go," Allie tells the woman resignedly.

"Here," the woman holds out the copy of National Velvet. "Take this. I think you'll enjoy it."

Allie accepts the book and hugs it to her chest as though it is made of gold. "Thanks."

She scampers off, ponytail flying, and meets her mother up at the front desk where they check out their books and head back out into the beautiful day. On their way through the door, they pass a gangly boy of about sixteen with dark hair and eyes who holds the door politely to allow the family to pass before him as he enters the building.

"Thank you," Allie's mother says, tugging on the hand of her youngest daughter. Allie, meanwhile, is already thumbing through her copy of National Velvet and does not look up

"You're welcome," the boy's voice is soft – almost whispering – and he looks down to the floor shyly when he speaks.

When they have gone, he proceeds into the library and heads directly over to the children's section and the woman in the red chair.

"Mom, I've been looking all over for you," he says chidingly, his tone almost parental.

"Bobby, I couldn't find my copy of National Velvet this morning," she explains innocently. "I think they took it."

She whispers the last part to him in a conspiratorial tone and looks around nervously as though she fears being overheard. He sighs and helps her rise to her feet.

"They didn't take anything," he says patiently. "The book is on the coffee table where you left it – it's just buried underneath some magazines."

"Are you sure?" she asks, not quite believing him.

"I'm sure," he tells her, taking her hand and leading her out the door.

"You're a good son, Bobby," his mother says as they walk. "You take good care of me."

And in the years to come, Alex Eames would make a yearly habit of re-reading National Velvet, her heart always thrilling when Velvet Brown managed to prove everyone wrong and win the Grand National steeplechase. And every time she picked up the book, one word would pop into her mind: tenacious. And she would remember the woman at the library telling her that she could do anything that boys could do, that she'd be a good police officer because she was tenacious.

And she would smile.

But nowhere in her remembering would Alex Eames recall the long-limbed boy whom she and her mother had passed on their way out of the library that morning. Nose in her book, she hadn't even seen him, just heard his soft voice. She wouldn't associate him with the woman in the red chair who had paid her so great a compliment, nor would she even recall that it had been on that particular day that she and her mother had passed him at all.

The only thing she would remember was that when she was ten and first spoke of her desire to become a police officer, a kind woman in a red chair had told her to go for it and not let anyone stand in her way. She would hear those words in her head through her time in the police academy and while she walked up and down the street in three inch heels and fishnet stockings during her stint in Vice. And she would take pride in the fact that she hadn't let anyone stand in her way, that she was playing on the same field as the boys and holding her own.

And there you have it, dear reader. Coincidences do not exist; everything is connected to everything else in a never-ending chain and even if the parties involved do not recognize this, the connections are still there, holding the entire structure together like invisible duct tape.

What's that? You're still not convinced? My but you're skeptical! We'd best have another example then…

TBC