I cued up the closest record within reach, Side 1 of Hüsker Dü’s Warehouse: Songs and Stories. I gathered other records from the leaf pile scattered around the stereo stand and pancake-stacked them on the spindle as the opening riff of “These Important Years” buzzed.

Heavy feet on the basement stairs continued toward the summit. I mumbled, “Okay, the music is back on, you can stop, you can go away,” and stood under the doorjamb between rooms.

“Art! Hey, Art, it’s fucking dark down here. Is there a light switch you can hit for me? Never mind. Found it. Jesus,” Mercy said, her voice muffled behind the basement door.

I didn’t answer her, but I turned down the volume until the music was a mist around my feet and ankles.

She said, “I thought this was your least favorite Hüsker album.”

It was true. Warehouse was their breakup album; essentially two different bands alternated songs, sounding like parents presenting their grievances and arguments, not to each other but to their child, explaining why they had to split up. Instantly defensive despite my terror, I had the urge to shout that just because it was my least favorite it didn’t mean I didn’t like it.

I shuffle-stepped into the living room, my head titled slightly to the right, cradling my arms, the tips of my long fingers lightly pressed to my forearms.

The basement door rattled in the frame. The worthless dining-room chair slid out from under the doorknob and tumbled to the side.

“You’re walking like you’re going to break,” Mercy said.

“What did you say?”

“I’m not trying to weird you out—”

“By breaking into my basement?”

“Fair point. I’m not reading your mind or anything like that. I was down here yesterday and I heard your mom say you were walking like you were going to break. I mean, ouch, Mom, but she’s right, you know. And—”

I interrupted her again. It was easier to interrupt her when she was behind a door. “Wait, wait, wait. You were down there, in my basement? Fucking yesterday?”

“There’s a shit-ton of cereal boxes down here, dude. Yeah, I was down here yesterday.”

Seriously, it was a wonder you didn’t shit Frosted Flakes and Froot Loops.

Light was dawning on my marble head. “Was yesterday the only day you were down there?”

Avoid regional colloquialisms involving the small coastal town of Marblehead.

“No.” Pause. “I’m here today, aren’t I?”

“How many other days have you been in the basement?”

“I can’t and won’t lie to you, Art.” She didn’t say anything else, didn’t add to the basement-break-in sum.

“Were you down there last week too? You were, weren’t you?” Now I knew she had been in the house during my dizzy, lethargic, lifeless first week home, where instead of healing and gaining weight my battery charge continued to drain.