So each Saturday morning after dawn, I take the book around the house. I do it again in the evening just before dusk. I do one circuit around the boundary of the property to make sure the fence is all good and so on, and then I come in for a tighter circle, to check the house for damage—loose nails, rat and snake holes, signs of termites, that kind of thing. It’s not complicated but, like I said, it’s important.

The three locks on the back door open loudly. Thunk, thunk, thunk. I wait. I never know what will wake Lauren. But she sleeps on. The day is blinding, the earth baked hard underfoot, cracked as old skin. The feeders hang empty. No breeze moves in the trees, each leaf is still and silent in the rotten heat. It is as if death has put its finger on the street and pinned it down. I lock the door again behind me and go to the tool shed around the side of the house.

In the lean-to it’s cool and dim, filled with the scent of rust and oil. It is the scent of all tool sheds, everywhere. I must be careful—scent is a highway for memory. Too late; in a shadowed corner of the lean-to Daddy stands tall and silent. He reaches for a box of screws, and the brown bottle behind it. Little Teddy tugs at his hand. He wants to get in the car and go but Daddy has to deal with Mommy first.

I get the tools quickly and go, blinking with relief in the burning sun. I lock the tool shed. You stay in there, Daddy. You too, Little Teddy. There is no place for you out here.

I write everything in the book very clearly. It’s not the same book, obviously. I keep my diary of broken things in an old textbook of Lauren’s. I write on top of the maps.

Mouse in kitchen is back, I write carefully in the pale blue sea off the coast of Papua New Guinea. Bathroom sink—faucet drips. Bible fell off table again?!?!? Why? Table legs uneven?!?!?!

And so on. The hinges on the bedroom door are squeaking; they need oil. A sheet of plywood on one of the living room windows is loose and needs nailing down. A couple shingles have come off the roof. It’s raccoons; they’re bad for shingle. But I like their small, clever black hands.

I do what I can now, and the rest I’ll get to this week. I have to be both Mommy and Daddy for Lauren. I like repairing the house, fixing holes as if I’m making it watertight. Nothing gets in or out without my permission.

The chocolate-chip pancakes are ready just as Lauren is waking. Personally I find pancakes a waste of time, like eating pieces of hot washcloth. But she loves them.