The fourteen-year-old washer had hit its spin cycle, shaken violently against the concrete and shut itself off partway through, with a tub full of soapy water and soaked bath towels.

I left the little lamp on the kitchen counter burning and went down the narrow, unpainted wooden steps to reset the machine’s heavy iron balance switch.

Halfway down the stairs, I froze.

The basement was pitch black except for a sharp rectangle of bright blue light glowing by the storage shelves in the back.

Adam was standing in the dark beside the old metal water heater, his face lit up by the screen of his phone.

His thumb was sweeping across the glass in quick, jerky strokes, typing into a text thread.