By some great act of chance, I find my way to the basement hallway without getting turned around, and I walk all the way to the end, to the door that leads into the storage room. The house is silent. I wait for the sound of a door slamming somewhere in the hallway, but it doesn’t happen. I open the door and turn on the light. Before I even get to the shelf, I can tell that something is wrong.

Before, when I was in that room, the photo books were packed tightly in place, organized and arranged perfectly. But there is a small gap so that one of the books leans through the empty space. I don’t have to check the notebooks on either side of the gap to know which album is missing. But I do anyway.

The album with those photos of Mary is gone. I place my hand in the gap, and it feels like a missing space in my memory. The entire room tilts to one side, and I put both of my hands on the shelf, lean forward, gasp for air. What’s going on? I turn toward the door, and the room spins. I have to close my eyes to keep my balance, but I still end up dropping to my knees. I can feel that ache of nausea forming deep inside of me and crawl for the door, but I don’t make it—I throw up all over the cement floor. I feel like my body is revolting against itself, trying to get something out that is too deeply lodged.

I wipe my mouth on my sleeve, but unlike other times in my life when I’ve vomited, I don’t feel any better than before. I lean against the wall and try to stand up, but it’s difficult, and the room keeps tipping and spinning. I make it to the door, leaning hard against the frame, then feel my body twisting through midair. It takes ages to reach the ground, and by then everything has gone dark.

This coming up out of unconsciousness doesn’t feel anything like waking up. When I wake from sleep, I open my eyes and see where I am, what time it is, and I do a quick self-inventory to see how tired or awake I’m feeling. But this is different. This is like rising out of deep water—I can see a pinprick of light at the end of the tunnel, and it’s rushing at me. Objects come into focus, but I can’t move. I’m a passive observer of the room I’m in.

It’s the living room, and I’m lying on the couch you had been sitting on when Tom asked you questions. The kitchen light is on, but besides that, everything is dark. I can move now, and I lift my hand to check the knot, but it’s so tender it starts to hurt before I even touch it. Something about it has moved into my jaw, or at least that’s the sense I have, that my jaw movement is impeded somehow, especially on the side with the knot. And in my ear on that side of my head is a distant rushing, the kind I hear when I place a conch shell up to my ear. It’s the sound of some faraway sea.