She disappeared for a moment and then returned, shaking her head. I described the sound to her. She listened for a moment, and then shook her head again. Guess I’m just losing my mind, I said, shrugging.

Perimenopause, she replied.

What?

It happens.

You’re such a little wench. I’m forty.

Old wench.

Wench betch.

Feigned cruelty was our preferred mode of address. I can’t remember how the wench thing began; just another inside joke that kept transmogrifying over the years. Other nicknames included Momma Wench, Momma Claire, Claire Danes, and Dame Wench. My top names for her included Ash Wednesday, Ashton Kutcher, and Ashscratcher. Paul joked only the NSA could decipher the encryption on our communication.

Ashley looked down and brushed her shoulders. Or maybe it’s the solar storms, she said. Apparently they’re the largest ever. Did you hear about this?

No.

They’re going to mess with our electronics, and some scientists said maybe even with our moods and basic cognitive functions, so . . . She widened her eyes and then slipped from view, like an imp returning to her bottle.

I wandered back into the dining room. There was something about the noise that seemed almost atmospheric. I looked up at the vent in the ceiling, walked over to the thermostat and turned off the air conditioner, but the hum persisted, all the more clearly. It occurred to me that it could be a vibration in the walls, or in the foundations of the house, perhaps from a micro-tremor. We’ve been known to get small earthquakes in the area from time to time. I walked over and touched the nearest wall but felt nothing. I put my ear up to it, and the sound didn’t change. I then knelt down and pressed my ear against the cool hardwood—again, nothing.

Bear? Paul called from upstairs.