“How did I even know how to come here?” Now Jackie was afraid again, and it made her angry. In her anger she slammed open another drawer, but again not silverware. “This is where silverware should go, if you think about the kitchen in terms of workflow. And who even has two hot milk drawers?”

“You had a knack for hurting yourself but a natural tendency to not really feel it,” said her mother. “I remember when you got stung when your birthday piñata was filled with bees. That taught you a valuable lesson about birthdays in general. Remember that?”

“I remember the pawnshop. I remember days at the pawnshop. Going back and back. What I don’t remember is where your silverware drawer is. Where is it? Where is the drawer?”

There had never been information more important to her. She crumpled the slip of paper in her left hand, and then fanned herself with it, not a single crease in it.

“I don’t have one, dear. You know that. We’re both getting worked up. You’d better sit down. We’ll figure this and everything else out if we just have more water. It’s important. It will help with your migraines.”

“I don’t get migraines!”

Her mother glanced out the window, and Jackie followed the glance, physically, to the window. Her anger was a creature now, and it walked behind her, pushing her along.

There was her mother’s yard, neat grass bordered by gravel. The grass kept alive with an artificial life-support system of pumps and machines stretching hundreds of miles to the nearest reservoir, its roots barely clinging to the sandy topsoil, mixed heavily with chemical fertilizer. Beyond the lawn, terraced on the steep hill, were plants more suited to the climate. Cacti, and sagebrush, and metallic trees that changed size each day.

“I’m not sure I’ve ever been out there,” she said as she sat down at the kitchen table with her mother.

“Of course you’ve been out there,” her mother said. “Let’s talk together about memories you have of being out there.”

Her mother rolled an avocado back and forth on the spotless tabletop. The floor and the tabletop and the walls were all the same clean color, and everything was equally clean and unused. The avocado was, of course, fake, as all avocados are.

Then her mother looked up with pleading eyes. She gestured with the avocado, as if that were what she was trying to say, or at least an approximation of that.

“When you were five years old, we held a birthday party for you in Mission Grove Park, in the birthday party area. The one that’s fenced in and kept secure in case there’s another one of those occasional birthday . . . accidents.