She walked and walked, panic receding some.

Her mind was a void.

But . . .

. . . drip . . . drip . . . into it . . . glimpses.

Her loop u n w i n d i n g.

That house over there had a small pond in the backyard, she knew-where frogs hung out; she'd played there . . . with that same boy from the playground.

That road led to the beach, where there was a long walk to water.

By the time she stood where the star was, she thought, Yes.

This was where she lived.

Had lived?

This was home.

A pale-yellow shingled house built up on tall wooden stilts.

A fence of white crisscrossed wood that ran down both sides.

An old turquoise car parked under a carport made of more crisscrosses.

Angry fists of hard gra.s.s punching up out of the sandy front yard.

There'd been a pink plastic flamingo in that garden right there at one point. Right at the base of that palm tree.

But not now.

The whole place looked storm beaten and crooked, like if she closed her eyes she could see wild winds, diagonal rain.

She knocked.

Nothing.

She knocked again, more loudly, and a light went on inside.

A middle-aged woman with a long bleached-blond ponytail opened the door. Her shirt: a hot-pink polo with a tiny st.i.tched white lantern and the words LAMPPOST BAR AND GRILL. "Can I help you?"

She was almost a stranger.

But her voice was familiar, and her scent-cigarettes and vanilla-felt right.

"Mom?" The word felt weird in Scarlett's mouth, garbled and foreign.

And everything around them froze-some sort of cosmic snapshot-and the air seemed to shake.

The woman trembled and her hand went to her mouth. "Oh my G.o.d, Scarlett?"

Then screamed: "SCARLETT?"

Scarlett nodded, half wanting to deny it and not knowing why.

And the woman grabbed her and collapsed into a hug.

Then stiffened and pulled back, eyes scanning the yard, the road. "Come in, come in," she said. "Before someone sees."

Ten minutes later, the woman had finally started to calm down, had finally stopped crying and rubbing Scarlett's hand-too hard, with her thumb-and asking, "Is it really you?"-who else would it be?-and "Are you okay? Are you hurt?" and more.

She was fine, Scarlett had said, over and over.

She hadn't been hurt.

She hadn't been abused.

"Not that I remember," she added now. "That's the thing. I don't remember anything."

"Are the others back, too?" The woman was closing the blinds, drawing the curtains.

Looped again now.

Back in that hot air balloon, the heat coming off the flame, making the air wavy, unsure.

"How do you know there are others?" Scarlett asked. "What happened? What's going on?"

The woman stiffened. "Are they back or not?"

"Yes, but no one remembers anything."

The woman seemed not as confused. "Well, that's common."

What could that possibly mean?

But then Scarlett looked at the papers on the table beside the sofa where she was sitting. Paranormal Underground magazine. UFOlogist Monthly. The cover of Open Minds had a story called "ETs and Religion."

"Do you think we were abducted by aliens?" Scarlett asked.

"You got any better ideas where you've been all this time?" the woman asked with a bit of an edge.

All.

This.

Time.

A person doesn't acc.u.mulate that many magazines in one night, or even a week.

"How long was I gone, exactly?" Scarlett asked, slowly, as a series of revelations clicked into place.

She had never before sat on this couch.

She had never before seen the cat that had peeked out once but was now hiding under an armchair by the television.

"You really don't know?" The woman shook with tears. "You don't know?"

????Know???????

??????????????? what?

The woman sat beside her on the sofa, took up her hand again. "You all disappeared eleven years ago."

Scarlett pulled her hand away; the room spun around her.

One spin.

Two.

Three spins.

Four.

Who was this crazy person?

Five spins.

Sixseveneightnineten spins.