I thought about Mira, the child everyone in the family called so good, so quiet — the little girl who drifted off to sleep on couches at loud gatherings with an ease the relatives found charming, whom Sondra bragged about as her well-behaved daughter.

And a cold understanding began to move through me.

Every memory I had of that child rearranged itself in the space of a minute, each one turning from sweet to sinister as I looked at it again.

The way Mira would go quiet and heavy-eyed an hour into a family party and be found asleep on the couch — we had all smiled at it, called her our little sleepyhead, marveled at a child who could nap through anything.

The long car trips from which she’d emerge groggy and blinking.

The birthdays and holidays where she was so calm, so undemanding, while the other children ran wild.