Tom walks up behind me. “Shirley’s favorites.”

I look around at the floor-to-ceiling shelves, the endless books, and the rich red rug. I didn’t even look at the bed as we walked in. I guess the walls of books distracted both of us. But even the bed is perfect, sitting a little lower than most, with a post at each corner and pure white sheers rustling in the light.

“Are you sure?” I ask Tom.

He looks at me with questions in his eyes.

“She’s eleven years old,” I explain. “It’s very nice. I’m afraid she might ruin something. This rug is incredible.”

He waves away my concern. “Everything in here is very sturdy. Even the rug’s attached to the floor.”

“My main concern is not that she’s going to remove the rug,” I mumble.

“Does she wet the bed?” he asks in a loud voice.

“Wet the bed?” you say from the table, indignant, suddenly coming up out of the book.

“Yes,” Tom says without any hint of humor. “Do you wet the bed?”

“No!”

“Can you follow simple instructions?” he asks.

“Yes,” you say, still indignant.

“Simple instructions,” Tom repeats, “such as, take off your shoes before coming inside?”

Your pale skin blushes red, and you stare at the carpet, nodding. You murmur something that sounds like, “Of course.”

“Do you know how to read a book without breaking the binding?”

You look at him. You don’t know how to read a book without breaking the binding.

“All right,” he says in a stern voice. “I’ll show you.”

Tom crosses the room and pulls out the chair beside you. He shows you how to hold the book so that the spine doesn’t crease, and that you shouldn’t press down on the pages when the hardback is open. But I can’t hear him because he’s talking in almost a whisper, or perhaps it’s the room and all the books are swallowing up the sound of his voice.

I stand there and watch him with you, and I think of all the things I won’t be able to teach you after I’m gone, all the things you’ll have to learn on your own or from people I don’t even know. It’s a source of pain, the idea that important people will enter your life who I will never know.

I turn and walk out of the room.

The Woman at the Window

I ran as fast as I could to the house, the rough wood trying to push splinters into my wet feet. The summer air was so heavy it held me back as I ran, the way dreams can keep you from lengthening your stride. Behind me, I could hear Tom catching up and Shirley shouting right behind him.

“Mary!”

The lone light above the deck entrance flickered as I flung open the screen and shot into the house. Mary screamed again, and her voice came from some muffled place.

“Mary! Where are you?”

I scanned the living room and the kitchen. Nothing. I ran through the small entryway and into the downstairs bathroom. She wasn’t there.