“I lived on this street,” I murmur.

When we walk by the Haycoxes’ house, I recall that it was blue when we were kids. Their son, Sean, and I went to the park together, played on swings. Each of us tried to swing the highest. Fearless, I usually won. He died of cancer. Mom said he wasn’t really gone . . . just on the other side. Memories flow faster—hopscotch on the sidewalk, a lost kitten we found but couldn’t keep, the baskets of fresh veggies Mrs. Bailey brought by in summer, Ted’s birthday party, games of hide and seek . . .

What is something no one can ever take away from you?

“You,” I murmur. But someone did. Was it me?

We stop in front of a black iron gate. It was once driftwood. The wall bordering the small lot is now made from solid planks of wood instead of chicken wire filled with stones. This new fence is smooth and impossible to scale, a 29 burned into it. I trace the familiar number then peer through the gate. Behind a giant magnolia tree I can just see the corner of a single-story white bungalow.

“We planted that tree together,” I tell Thomas.

“Do you remember her?”

“Not yet.”

They’re evergreen.

What does that mean?

It means even when it isn’t covered in beautiful flowers, there will be green leaves.

But that wasn’t true. Windstorms denuded the tree in winter. Mama promised the leaves and flowers would come back, though. And they did. Now the tree is taller than the house and blocks it from the street. She’d be pleased.

A brass bell hangs from the gate. I ring it. No one comes. I ring it again and again and the jingle-jangle echoes into the oncoming night. I have to get inside. I have to know it all.

“Can I help you?” a woman politely inquires.

She stands a few feet away. Mid-thirties, workout clothes, a rip-stop red computer bag slung over one shoulder, dark hair, hazel eyes, a snub nose. I ask, “Do you know who lives here?”

“It’s an Airbnb,” she says. “I can give you a link if you’re interested in renting?”

“I need to go in.”

Her eyes click from casual to uncertain.

“She used to live here,” Thomas explains.

“I seriously doubt that,” the woman says. “My parents have owned this place for almost twenty years.”

I hear myself ask, “What are their names?”

The woman shifts her bag to the other shoulder. “Cindy and Randall Bailey.”

“Kathy?”

Chin tucked in like a turtle uncertain whether to leave its shell, she asks, “Who are you?”

There are moments when you know, with absolute certainty, that if you take a step, utter a word, or make a decision, nothing will ever be the same. There is no return to before—and for better or worse, your life will begin again from that moment on. “You used to babysit me,” I say, my voice strangely calm. “I’m Birdie Ravanelle.” I am Birdie Ravanelle.