On a humid October night in Millbrook, New Hampshire, I stood in the driveway of a house I'd never seen before, holding a set of keys that didn't belong to me. The realtor had sent me to 3 Juniper Court by mistake — a mix-up in the paperwork, she said. But when I stepped inside, the living room was warm. A kettle was still steaming on the stove. And someone had just left a message on the machine, addressed to me by name. What I found in the basement wasn't a body or a secret room. It was a door that should have led outside but instead opened onto a hallway I recognized — the hallway of my own apartment, sixty miles away, in the middle of the night. This is a story about the distance between where you are and where you should be, and whether that distance can ever be measured in feet. Or maybe just in the sound of a phone ringing in an empty house, on a line that was disconnected five years ago.

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