My bedroom is carpet, and the hallway is wood. That’s the big distinction to my bare feet. We don’t close doors here; what’s the point? You can’t see what’s on the other side regardless, and a closed door is just an unexpected wall. And so the soles of my feet tell me what room I’m in, my toes questing for the edge of the stairs as I head by memory for the ground floor, counting steps so I don’t misjudge the distance to the floor. Thirteen, fourteen, fifteen - landed.

Momma is in the kitchen, and I follow the sound of metal pots and utensils clanging together, walking slowly around where I remember the furniture is. We scold each other for moving things, here. Anything out of place could mean a stubbed toe or a worse fall. The kitchen floor is the same hardwood, but it’s warmer in here from the stove, hot air welcoming me in.

“Five o’clock,” says the electronic voice over the clock-speakers. “Dinnertime.”

If I were anyone else, I probably wouldn’t need the clock’s voice to tell me it was dinnertime. Everyone else comes running when they smell dinner. But I’m anosmic, putting me one additional sense behind everyone else in this world of darkness. When I was little, I thought smell was as much a fairy tale as sight, but then I realized I’m not important enough for literally everyone in the world to be lying to me.