About eighteen months after the hospital night, I found Sabina on the living-room floor with crayons. She’d drawn two houses — one enormous, too many windows, a long driveway; the other small and yellow, with flowers by the door.

“Which one is this?” I asked, pointing to the larger house.

“That’s the loud house.”

I touched the yellow one. “And this?”

“Our house.”

“Why is it yellow?”