That August I began to dream of drowning. It was the season of water – strange storms troubled the air. All day I crept along the edges of rooms, avoiding the precious windows – half ajar, propped open with old newspapers – where the green sky pooled. Outside, whole oceans flooded the garden, encroaching on the house and its sagging porch. On the first floor the eaves – swollen, bloated with salt. On the second the mirrors, weeping sodden light; the carpets stained with moisture. On the third I studied the ceiling for cracks through which the rain might bloom. The attic and the landing damp. The skirting and the sideboards. The clocks. Only once (in the afternoon) I moved down to the basement, where a man – quiet and still as a mouse – floated face-down in the dark. Above us, the house hummed like a machine.