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all the seashells stuck in it,” Scott said. “The old croquet court is on the other side.”
    â€œ No, ” said Madeline, “I remember that wall, but it’s gone now, look!”
    Scott peered through the rain, and in fact it did seem that the old wall was gone—the darkness below the walking cat seemed to be farther away than the cat.
    â€œA metal rod,” he said, almost angrily, “a two-by-four . . . hell, a telephone line—”
    â€œIt’s Bridget!” exclaimed Madeline. “ Bridget! ” she called out the window.
    Bridget was a cat they had had in the ’90s. She had died of some cat malaise in young Madeline’s arms.
    The cat out in the darkness turned its head toward the window, and for a moment paused there.
    â€œ Bridget, Bridget! ” called Madeline again, and Scott saw tears on her cheeks. “ Come here, girl! ”
    After a long pause, the cat resumed its walk, and in a few moments disappeared around the block of deeper darkness that was the northwest shoulder of the building.
    Scott braced himself to stop his sister from climbing right out the window, but Madeline only sat back on her heels, knuckling her eyes.
    â€œMadeline,” said Scott cautiously, “Bridget—”
    â€œOh, I know she died! I was holding her, and she was stiff when we buried her out there!” She waved a hand vaguely at the window. “But—it was her. And that wall is gone.”
    All Scott could think of to say was, “Don’t yell anymore. Claimayne and Ariel—”
    â€œTheir rooms are at the other end, on the front side.”
    â€œRight, well . . .” He realized that he was shivering. The cat had obviously not been Bridget. The cat had obviously been walking on something . A clothesline, probably. He gripped the wet windowsill and got his feet under himself and managed to stand up without eliciting any strong pains from his knees. “It’s—it’s only for a week.” He leaned against the wall beside the window for a moment, then pushed off and crossed to the doorway to his room, stepping around the buzzing heater. “I’ll leave the connecting door open.”
    SCOTT WAS AWAKENED IN the night by the sound of muffled sobbing, and when he sat up in bed, the room was dimly illuminated by moonlight, and he was startled by the bare shelves and the absence of furniture in the familiar room. Did that have something to do with why Madeline was crying?
    He had flipped the blankets aside and stood up before he remembered that he was an adult, and that this hadn’t been his room for many years.
    He hurried to the connecting door, and his bare foot collided with the heater, knocking it over.
    As he leaned in the doorway and rubbed his toes, smothering curses, Madeline sniffed and said, “Watch out for the heater.” He heard her shift in her bed, and she added, “I’m sorry I woke you up. I’ll be quiet.”
    â€œWell—what’s wrong?”
    â€œOh. Being here again—I just miss everybody that’s gone.”
    â€œSo do I.” As opposed to the ones that are still here, he thought. A line from Coleridge occurred to him, and he sleepily recited it: “‘And a thousand thousand slimy things lived on, and so did I.’” Then he added, “Sorry, that’s from a poem.”
    â€œNot a helpful poem. Scott, are we gonna be okay? I mean, ten or twenty years from now—are we going to be—with—people? We’re not now.”
    Scott shrugged in the darkness, but said, “Of course. And they’ll be glad of it, too.”
    She laughed softly. “I’m sorry. Let’s go back to sleep. Set the heater up again, it turns off if it’s lying down.”
    â€œRight.” Scott set the device upright again and turned back toward his own room.
    â€œIt’s got a ball bearing in it,” said Madeline.
    Scott nodded, though