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with a style and layout exactly likeall its neighbors, no personality of its own. Charlotte is comforted by the predictability of the complex; Emily probably finds it stifling. Dehumanizing. Depending on her mood, she might start comparing it to some kind of Communist state.
    â€œI don’t spend much time in here,” Charlotte prattles, “but, you know. Nice for greeting guests.” She heads quickly toward the living room before Emily can ask her to elaborate on who these guests might be. “And this is the living room.”
    The clop of Emily’s boots disappears as they step onto the plush carpet.
    â€œAre these my digs?”
    â€œIf it’s not comfortable, you could sleep in my—”
    â€œIt’s great,” Emily says, dropping her duffel on the neat stack of pink bedding. Charlotte readies herself for some comment about the room’s neutral tones, “the color of pantyhose.” Instead, Emily wanders toward the built-in shelves lined with their framed photos, tiny tea sets, careful rows of books (one for the book group, one health/nutrition, one loans from Emily). She kneels down to peer at the fireplace that, despite the bundle of cedar logs in the cast-iron basket, hasn’t yet been touched.
    â€œI was thinking we could use it while you’re here,” Charlotte volunteers. “It just hasn’t been quite cold enough yet.”
    Not to mention she’s too paranoid to build a fire on her own. The flames might leap out of the grate, a burning ember might fly onto the carpet, she would have to stay awake until every last bit of ash was cold, oh—she feels tired just thinking about it.
    â€œBut this weekend it’s supposed to go down to the thirties,” she says, “so we could definitely build one. Would you want to? That would be cozy, wouldn’t it? A fire? I always wanted a fireplace on Dunleavy Street.”
    Emily says nothing. Which isn’t like her. Maybe she’s concentratingon absorbing the place, taking it all in before unleashing her assessment. She pauses in front of the thick, tweedy curtains that conceal the sliding glass door.
    â€œWhat’s out here?” Emily reaches into the curtains and taps glass.
    â€œThat’s the garden patio,” Charlotte says, quoting from the brochure. “Isn’t it nice? Let me open it up so you can see.”
    As a rule, Charlotte keeps these curtains closed. As far as she’s concerned, the “garden patio” is the condo’s biggest drawback. She doesn’t like to be reminded of the half inch of glass separating her from potential robbers, murderers, rapists, wild animals. Every night at 7:00 P.M., the porch light automatically snaps on; from inside, the curtains emit a faint yellow glow.
    Charlotte tugs the cord, and the heavy curtains shrug apart, creaking on their metal hinges to unveil a perfect square of smooth fake stones. The patio’s only furnishings are two metal lounge chairs and a glass-topped table with an umbrella poking through the middle, bound tight as a swizzle stick. Under the glare of the lightbulb, the glass tabletop is marred with stray leaves, sticky pine needles, bird droppings. The puffy, flowered chair cushions are still folded and stacked in the corner, exactly where Charlotte found them.
    Emily leans into the glass and cups her hands around her eyes. Charlotte watches a moth attack the porch light as she waits for Emily to speak. It’s amazing how much her daughter’s opinion matters. The opinion of a person whose diapers she changed, whose temperature she took, whose milk she made—a person she herself created.
    After what seems like several minutes, Emily turns. “This room must get great natural light.”
    Charlotte thinks she can literally feel her heart swell. “Well,yes,” she says. “I guess it does, now that you mention it.” She gives the cord a few tugs, smothering the window in