Last night Mary woke up and didn’t know where she was.

She’d lived in so many different places, over the years: houses with her parents in Vermont and Tennessee, rooms by herself, with him, and then by herself again. Now she couldn’t tell — was it a nightstand to the right of her bed, or was it a wall? Was the door safely closed by her feet, or was it off to the side where she couldn’t see who came in?

That night Mary stayed awake until dawn, trying to remember the exact color of the blankets she’d slept under in her room in Virginia, when she was 13.