EIGHT YEARS LATER, in the first hour of July 2, 2011, an immense silvery light comes into our bedroom. My husband sleeps near the door; I’m reluctantly on the left. He needs to be the man; he needs to remember what he has forgotten; he needs me to want him where he is. What he has is a body freshly absent of cancer, an acquired brain injury, a scar down his middle, a gap where the memories of our life used to be, a kind, childlike smile, and a wife who thinks she’s a badass. The light saturates the midnight room. A bolt the speed of lightning; a brilliant flash; ordinary blackness. We raise our heads and breathe; there is no thunder.