It seemed to her that the world that woman existed in was in fact different than the world she felt herself to be in now—as though that woman had actually found a different world, one she had moved through quietly and easily, one much different than this one, with its terrible histories and foreboding futures, this world of rising tides and

There was a feeling in Ada of not quite wanting to believe what she saw, or what it meant, that official diagnosis—dissociation—that seemingly sensible answer that foreclosed the other answer, the mythical answer that seemed to be quickly slipping away.

Many mothers leaving children. In a movement, she called it. But not political. More like a migration, away from a role.

though she didn’t particularly care. It felt like playing a role:

Does it feel like you caught something? I supposed I could’ve been affected by someone else. Infected, in some way. But I don’t know.

that generalness distanced Ada from it. She couldn’t just say, Yes, I am a victim of social-historical processes

some basic approaches, he said. I already know my escape routes. You do? Don’t you? she said.

What if they have some practical advice that could save your life? There’s no science behind live shooter training. Just liability. Just lawsuit culture.

But this time she sat on the living room floor, eating shortbread, feeling slightly insane as she tried to make an imagined thing turn real.