A nine-year-old, mapping his exits in a stranger’s house, the way I map mine before takeoff.

And then he reached the bedroom that had stayed closed for seven years, and he stopped.

Inside were a star-shaped nightlight, a box of wooden blocks, and the pencil marks on the wall where Claire had measured Toby’s height at two years old.

“Did somebody used to sleep in this room?” he asked.

It was the first real question he had ever asked me.

“Yes,” I said, watching him.