Every nightmare starts the same: I’m walking south on Poplar. The grass overgrown— no one lives here anymore. As I approach the yield that forks the asphalt road, I can see around the elms into my childhood bedroom. Shutters open but the blinds are drawn. The red door with a gold handle is closed, the driveway empty. I step between the crabapple trees that border the lawn, and notice a figure in the living room window. The bricks of this house are darker in my memories. When I get to the door, it is locked.

And it always will be.