I wake up and her face leans down over me. I holler and try to crawl out of the way and she puts her hands on my shoulders and I yell and flail my arms and she grabs my wrists and pushes my hands down and then she lets me go.

I crawl up on hands and knees and scuttle away, but the washboards and buckets, the meat grinders missing cranks, the lantern frames and Christmas ornaments and thick yellow dust are everywhere. I stop and turn around. Hélène sits where she was, sits back on her calves, her palms flat on top of her thighs. She looks around the basement. Looks at me. She looks at her hands, smeared with the white dust. White smudges, handprints on her black pants. I look at myself: I’m covered in dirt, dust, my hands black and smudged, my clothes grey, like I’ve rolled in dirty flour. I open my mouth and it’s sticky and I just smack my lips a few times and watch her, palms flat on top of her thighs. She doesn’t stand up.

After a while, she asks, Is anyone going to look for you? Her French accent making every word sound careful in the quiet basement.

I think about it. Somebody will, I say. Probably.

She nods.

Is it warm enough?

It’s not too bad.

She nods. She stands up and goes to the ladder. On the floor there’s a jug of water and a plate of sandwiches. Tomatoes and white cheese. I wait for her legs, calves, feet to vanish up the ladder.