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first time many calendars ago, on the night when my family had been five years in the basement. When my hand slipped on the knob because of my own saliva, I’d grasped it again. But I hadn’t found a reason to turn it. I didn’t even try. In the basement there was my mother. And my grandmother, sister, and brother. And Dad. That night I went back to his lap, and we ate carrot soup as I swung my legs in those pajamas, the ones that have feet.
    “We won’t get there in time?” Grandma’s sobbing became anger. And all of a sudden her eyes seemed dry. “Let’s find out.”
    She rested the little boy against her chest, still slapping his back. She rounded the sofa, but instead of heading toward the door that was always unlocked, she walked out into the hall.
    I leapt off the sofa, my feet sinking into the cushion as I propelled myself forward, excited it was me who’d come up with the final solution to the problem. I grabbed my grandmother by the elbow to stop her.
    “Grandma, the door’s there,” I said as I ran across the room. “Come on, we can get out through here.”
    She raised her eyebrows halfway up her forehead when she understood. My father took a step forward with an arm outstretched as if he could pick me up just by thinking about it.
    I clasped the doorknob.
    And I turned it.
    Or I tried.
    Three times.
    Dad lowered his arm. He stared at me for a few seconds. Then he spoke to Grandma. “And you’re not going anywhere, either.”
    “I’m not going to let this child suffocate,” she replied. Ignoring Dad’s orders, she began walking toward the bedrooms again. He followed her, driving his heels into the floor.
    “You don’t even have a key to that door,” he shouted at her. “Or the one up top.”
    At that moment the baby produced a long gurgle that ended in a cough.
    He started to cry.
    And to breathe.
    My father stopped dead. From the constant volume of the baby’s crying, I figured Grandma had stopped, too.
    Mom ran into the hall.
    I was still gripping the doorknob. Dad had lied to me. That door had never been unlocked.
    It was just another wall.
    The last wall.
    There was a lot of movement in the hall and bedrooms. And in the bathroom. When Dad got back to the living room he found me still holding the doorknob. I noticed a blink of surprise. “Go to your room,” he said. “Go on.”
    He switched off the light, leaving me in total darkness.
    I heard the door to his bedroom close.
    I let go of the knob, now warm, while the shapes in the room formed around me. I made for the hall, successfully negotiating all the obstacles. Before going to my room, I paid Grandma a visit.
    First I went up to the crib to check the baby’s breathing. It sounded so easy, so healthy, it was as if the choking had never happened. Then I went up to my grandmother. I shook her by what I thought was her shoulder under the blanket. She groaned. I jiggled her again. An almost undetectable trembling told me she had woken up.
    But she didn’t speak.
    I shook her again.
    My grandmother touched me at chest height. “Oh, it’s you,” she said, recognizing me by my feel. “What is it?” she asked. She moved under the covers and spoke louder. “Is it the baby again?”
    “No,” I said. “The baby’s fine.”
    She breathed out. A bitter smell reached me along with the talcum powder. “Where’s the chick?” I whispered.
    I waited for her answer.
    “The chick. Where is it?”
    “So it was you who moved my pillow?” she asked.
    “Yeah. Earlier. When the baby—”
    “And what did you see?”
    “I didn’t see the chick.”
    “But, what did you see?”
    “I saw the shell. And a yellow mark. Like the egg that Dad broke. Where’s the chick?”
    “It escaped,” she quickly answered. “When your father came I took it from your hand. I hid it under the pillow.”
    “That’s what you told me.”
    “But when Dad took you to your room, it escaped. It ran across the bed.” She gestured with her hand. “And it