The next day, I decided to try and wipe Maggie’s cat’s mess off the squares I could save and arrange them on the kitchen floor in pretty piles of color because I’ve always liked stacking up my supplies more than actually making something of them. Toby was in his tilted baby seat on the kitchen table, making faces out the window at the empty porch, when I heard the knocking. At first I thought he might be rocking off the table, but when I looked up, he was still smiling out the window. I looked around the kitchen—the only other thing in the room where the knocking could be coming from was the cardboard box with Aunt Ruth’s quilt in it that I had dragged into the kitchen to do something with once I’d finished cleaning up my own quilt squares. There was knocking again, and I looked over into the box, lifting up the quilt warily, in case there was a mouse in there knocking around in the wooden canisters I was going to throw away.