What did she remember from this time in her life, when Leda was Sylvie’s age? A low-level hum of anticipation. It had ushered her through that first freezing winter and helped her push a stroller so fast and far that she never once remembered feeling cold. She looked up: snow-heavy branches; she looked down and the baby’s still-blue eyes peeked out from the depths of the stroller.

With the lightest touch, she placed a hand on Kiki’s foot; she imagined it would help her feel more grounded. Instead, she felt a light-headed rush, as she realized this was an empty heap of blanket. Kiki must have gone upstairs.

OUTSIDE WITH LEDA that winter there’d been quiet electricity. Her film (her film!) was coming out in theaters in New York and Los Angeles the following fall. This had not seemed possible, but she was too consumed with feeding and changing and snuggling Leda to linger on any one thought for too long. For the first time since college her insomnia had vanished; she could barely stay awake at night. What did she see in those moments before sleep? Not her daughter’s eyes, or her slow-blooming smile as she lighted with seeming disbelief on her first falling snow. Not Matthew, walking through the door smelling of beer, with a bounty of bagels and M&M’s from craft services, courtesy of whatever film he was shooting for next to nothing. Not the reviews that would or would not run when her film came out, or what their life could look like in the wake of success or failure or different choices. Every time she fell asleep she always saw the clock at 2:00 a.m.; she saw her colored index cards and her blue rollerball pens bright in artificial light. In her fantasies she was alone and focused.

Sarah crawled under the blanket. She felt she was crawling into Kiki’s skin. She was cradling Sylvie; she was setting a table; she was walking with buoyancy no matter her age or mood. Only when she heard tires over gravel and saw a flash of headlights did she realize she’d been asleep.

An engine cut out. She awaited the car door closing and the footsteps approaching, and—with somnambulistic logic—knew she had to get up, it was time to get up, and she forcefully threw off the blanket. She was suddenly overcome with claustrophobic heat, and without even realizing she was doing so, she opened the screen door and went outside.

It was humid and cool. Crickets and the sound of faraway cars rolled over the faint ripple of the creek. With only the town’s streetlamps on in the distance, the view seemed dingier and more ominous. As she stood at the side of the house, she collected herself by counting her breaths, peering around toward the front, anticipating a stranger.

Arman. Sitting in the car. His shock of blue-black hair.