My chest tightens and I bend my legs, sit beside her on the wet and cold floor, shine the flashlight up so we have light between us. She’s shivering so hard I think I hear her teeth chatter, so I slide my hat over her head, put an arm around her.

She looks up at me. “Oh,” she chatters. “I’m M-M-Maree and you’re Ms. Claire, and you teach me guitar lessons and give me birthday presents, and I stole your memory.” More gulping.

I don’t try to guess at what she’s talking about because all I know is that we need to leave. “Sh-sh-sh. It’s okay. We can talk later because we need to get out of here. It’s dark and very cold, and it’s not a place for little kids. Okay?”

Without warning, the flashlight on my phone is extinguished, plunging the two of us into complete darkness. I flinch, my ears loud with the thump of my heart. It’s so dark I can’t see in front of my nose. In the blackness, my fear is a slithering thing that coils around my head, squeezes my thoughts until they make no sense. Where am I?

Someone grabs my hands, squeezes so tight I think the bones might break. “Ms. Claire?” A little girl’s voice, and hearing it calms me. I am a teacher and I can be strong for this girl.

“Yes?” In the dark my mind wanders.

“Can we leave now?”

“Well, no, I don’t think that’s a good idea.” I smell damp earth.

A little body nestles close to me. “We’re in the Buckner Building, and your light went out, and I’m Maree and you’re Ms. Claire.”

“Thank you, Maree,” I say, and my voice trembles. “Listen, Maree, it’s very hard for me to remember why I’m here. Can you keep talking to me?”

I feel her lay her head against my shoulder. “You want me to be your memory?” she whispers.

“Exactly.”

“I’m good at that.”

“Perfect.”

“Can you tell me a story, Ms. Claire? I’m scared and I keep seeing things in the dark, so I just want to close my eyes, but I promise I won’t fall asleep, okay?”

I try to get a deep breath to calm the tremors that rack my body. “Sure, I’ll try.” I search my mind, and the one that comes easy to me is about Dad. So I tell her about the bear that broke into BTI when I was seven.

She laughs. “I love that story,” she says. “Can you tell me ones about you and my dad? He’s Tate, and you’re best friends.”