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wallpaper. Nikki’s walls were bare of posters now, but her old blanket was folded on the end of the dusty trundle bed.
    Michelle picked up the blanket and rubbed the frayed fabric against her cheek. It had been a gift from her film crew a few days before Nikki’s birth. After staying home for twelve weeks, Michelle had hired a babysitter and packed her briefcase for a production job wrapping another movie. She ended up wrapping her baby in this blanket instead.
    Growing up in the Midwest, Michelle had seen her share of tornadoes ushered in by green skies of warning. But when she awoke to the cacophony of furniture crashing to the floors, there was no mistaking the neon sign flashing in her head: earthquake.
    Michelle scooped up the baby and staggered across floors that were bouncing up and down between walls that were moving side to side, like the rope bridge of a fun house. Just as suddenly, it all stopped. The power went out. Time slowed like an intravenous drip. In the eerie silence, she sat in the front hall, haunted by a high-pitched hum from the earth until the dogs howled and the house shuddered again. In the darkness, through endless aftershocks, Michelle kept Nikki wrapped in that blanket, safe in her arms.
    At dawn, she carried her baby around the rubble and climbed over the upside down dresser back to her bed. That evening, when the sun hid behind the black smoke, Michelle nursed Nikki to sleep by candlelight. Then she lay, fully dressed and rigid with fear, as fire trucks blared past. No power, no plumbing, no phone service—and the baby didn’t get so much as a cut from all the glass on the floor. The next day, Michelle found her briefcase and unpacked it. That show would go on, but without her.
    Michelle turned to survey the room. A new crack rose from the corner of the window frame and spread a foot across the wall. The plaster buckled in spots, as if reluctant to let go. “Settling,” the local realtors called it, a natural phenomenon that was as much of a surprise to new homeowners as the reality of parenthood was to new mothers. She gave up the long hours of production for a desk job close to home, but as Nikki grew, so did the job of protecting her. And now it seemed that everything Michelle had done was for nothing.
    A few minutes passed, or maybe an hour. Michelle shook herself awake and surveyed the dusty room. It was like a magazine puzzle: what is wrong with this picture? Nikki’s white dresser and desk were still here, but the drawers were empty. Storage boxes were stacked in the corner. Michelle stepped slowly across the room to find the seams of the top box taped shut. She backed against the wall and braced her feet to get leverage. She tugged at the tape with her left hand, but the box shifted. When she shoved it back with her shoulder, the box toppled to the floor and took her with it. She listened for a moment to be sure Tyler hadn’t heard the crash from his room. Thank goodness for headphones.
    Michelle spied Nikki’s little bookshelf behind the door. She rolled over to her knees and crept closer. The particleboard was plastered with stickers ranging from My Little Pony to a Skull & Crossbones sneaker logo. A forgotten ball of knitting yarn was wedged behind the bottom shelf. Michelle used it to dust off the plastic snow globes Drew had brought home from location jobs, then the spines of books ranging from The Tell-Tale Heart to The Runaway Bunny . She pulled out the picture book and flipped through the scribbled-on pages. No matter how far the little bunny ran away, the mother vowed to find him. Michelle put the book back and wiped her eyes. “For you are my little bunny.”
    The top shelf was empty except for a jewelry box with a ballerina that twirled when she opened it. Inside, there were two pennies, a purple pen, and one dangling disco ball earring. Nikki always used purple ink, much to the consternation of certain English teachers. Michelle