As the taxi drove over the bridge, I wondered if the movers were too far behind. They should arrive at the new house around the same time I did, or at least I hoped so. My car had broken down yesterday, of all days, the day before a big move. I nearly fell asleep in the backseat of the taxi, green and brown blending together in my window. It stopped in front of my new house, a white two-story concoction with peeling sage-green trim. I paid the driver and walked up to the front door, rummaging around in my purse for the keys. With an excited breath, I unlocked and opened the door.

No.

This was all wrong. The ash staircase, the blue paint on the walls, even the deep purple carpet. A haunting feeling came over me and I felt cold. I heard the taxi pull away outside. The door frame to the yellow-painted kitchen was marked with notches. Not that unusual, Kim I reassured myself, taking deep breaths. So what if it looks like where dad hung the noose? I walked over.

There, in crayon scrawl, “Kim-4’5’’, Aug ‘95”