She felt hooked at the waist, jerked forward. Dune kicked aside the towel, grasped the knob and pulled the door open. Immediately, warm air gusted up into her face like a sigh.

Some mistake in the design of the house meant that there was a blower that pushed air into the basement instead of the living room. It never turned all the way off, even on the hottest days of summer. Most of the winter, Kama had propped open the door to the basement and set up a fan nearby to push the warm air through the house. “Just until it’s fixed,” of course.

In spite of the heavy heat, the dry breath of the house was a comfort today. Dune reached for the light switch and flipped it. Darkness persisted. She remembered then that the switch at the top of the stairs had stopped working last winter, and now only the one at the bottom would produce light.

She moved down into the dark, using her phone flashlight towards the end when the weak light from the kitchen ceased to be sufficient. She felt the space open before her, let her fingers drift over the wall until she found the working switch. Flipping it on, she stopped on the stair, paused by the parallel presence and absence of her father.

This space was him, cozy and spare; faint hints of mint, leather, prayer incense, sesame. She could hear him, trying to explain the world to her in his quirky, meticulous way. He was the dreamy Aquarian to Kama’s Aries, fundamentally unhurried, always trying to get a thorough perspective, even if that meant being in a near constant state of research.

Diligent and particular, Brendon had created a monument in the center of the basement, a large model construction of the city of Detroit, set up on four square card-playing tables.

To these tables her father had attached small wheels, so he could always move them around, reach the center. He’d tracked the constructions and demolitions of the city down here, the foreclosures, the opening and closing of businesses. She could see him now, sliding southwest Detroit towards him, slipping between sections to show her how he’d perfected the front of El Barzon, his favorite restaurant in Mexicantown. And here was the final resting place of Goodwells, the best vegan sandwich in Detroit. And by the old Michigan Citizen office, the Black-owned creperiê Le Petit Zinc, also closed. He’d put small black flags on each spot when its time was done, tasting the memories.