Somewhere, there is the memory of a portal. It is the dog door he uses every day, and it will shuttle him from the inner sanctuary of the house out into the sunlit yard, if only he can find it. He looks for it in the belly of the kitchen cabinet, in the steel shine of the freezer, in the crevice beside the dryer. He searches and sniffs, his round, brown eye wide under the fringe of hair he hasn’t let me trim since losing the other eye a year ago.

My husband sits at the kitchen island scrolling through his phone. The of toenails on hardwood sounds like little bombs going off in my head, but it doesn’t breach the barrier of his consciousness. I watch them both as, I say. Without looking up, my husband puts down his phone, scoops up the dog, carries him down the steps to the yard, comes back in, sits down, and picks up his phone again. A minute later, Theo bursts back in through the dog door and skids across the floor into my legs. The way in is not a mystery. Only the way out is lost.