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creaking wood treads, the total darkness of the basement engulfing her. She stepped onto the cold concrete floor and nearly shrieked when something touched her face. But it was just a string. Pulling it bathed the room in the dim light of a bare bulb above her head.
    The furnace in the corner rumbled and then clacked to a halt. The room fell silent, but the space was calling out to her, almost begging for investigation—old pieces of furniture, boxes, piles of clothing still on hangers, framed artwork, laundry baskets and milk crates filled to the brim—all of it holding potential clues to her life. She walked over to a large roll of carpet, taped together, and, pulling back a corner, revealed a hint of white shag. She fingered the fibers and smiled. It was hers. She’d rolled around on that rug as a child in her bedroom.
    Next to the rug was a white-painted table covered in butterflies. This was hers too. Her fingers traced the texture of the paint, the delicate brushstrokes on the wings. Her mom had painted this. Grace moved around the table, examining all four sides, the butterflies, flowers, detailed trees and grass. On the back, in marker, were smiley faces, at least a dozen, drawn with a child’s hand. Had she done that? Among the smiles were two circles, linked together, each containing one letter: G and M . Grace and Michael? But it was a child’s work. Could that be M for Mom?
    She sat on the floor and sifted through nearby boxes. A picture frame held a photo of a woman and a child, sitting on a blanket in the grass, staring intently at each other. The little girl—probably Lisa—maybe four years old, with short, wispy hair, held the woman’s face in her hands. The woman was a younger version of the mother she had remembered in the kitchen. She touched the glass, as if she could reach through it and touch the woman’s hair. An ache welled up, an overwhelming sense of loss, of needing her mother, even if she couldn’t remember her. What had happened to her? To both of their parents? She needed to ask Lisa more tomorrow.
    Farther down in the box was another picture, this one of a little girl swinging under that giant tree in the front yard. The girl leaned back, her mouth open in joy, her long, wavy dark hair falling behind her, little bare feet high in the air. The hair was the same as Grace’s. Closing her eyes, she tried to recall the breeze, the massive branch creaking against the pull of the ropes, the birds. It almost felt real, but was it wishful thinking? Was it her?
    Something began to howl outside. She walked to the window above the washing machine. She couldn’t see anything, but the howling continued. First one, then more. Coyotes.
    As she stood there, a feeling of déjà vu rushed through her. She tried to understand the strange sensation gathering inside. There was nothing odd about what she was looking at: an old washing machine, a slightly newer-looking dryer beside it, a large cast-iron basin full of dirty laundry, and, above it, an old metal chute. A churning filled her belly, like nausea, but then rushed through her system like a locomotive. She tightened her grip on the machine, weakened by the sensation, terrified of a feeling she couldn’t identify. And then it came like an alarm: a long, terrified scream.
    Grace whipped her head around so quickly that she winced. There was no one else in the basement. But she heard it again, the sound of terror and panic. It was a child. She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to get that noise out of her head. It faded to a whimper and she took a breath and let her head fall back. She opened her eyes, staring at that chute. The voice was gone, but her stomach twisted in knots. She thought she might get sick. Was it panic? Memory? She rushed back upstairs and latched the door shut.
    As she climbed the stairs to the second floor, she instinctively stopped at the midway point. Why had she known that spindle would be loose? She stood for a moment, eyes