THE SUMMER WE LOST HER

Matt switched on a lamp made of deer antlers, and the amber glow brought his entire childhood to life. Thick log walls, bulging stone fireplace, plank ceiling, the head of a lifeless buck Nate found at the side of Highway 86 some thirty years back. Heavy paisley curtains edged with navy velvet cloaked the windows, and a threadbare rug stretched across floorboards worn down by generations of Sorenson triumphs and heartaches, worries and joys.

The same puzzles and games lined the built-in shelves of the dining room. The same ashy fireplace tongs. Same basket of logs. Same stack of creamy wool blankets with multicolored stripes his parents used to buy on weekend trips to Quebec City before he was born. “Iconically Canadian,” his mother used to say. The Hudson Bay Company’s point blankets were prized by fur traders, miners, and First Nations people, and were traded for beaver pelts, buffalo robes, and moccasins.

“You coming?” Matt called back to Gracie on the front porch. She made her careful, clickety-swish way inside with the crutches covered with stickers that had grown gauzy, grayed, and torn.

It was something he and his wife battled over—whether or not to push her to walk without them. It was Matt’s belief that they should allow Gracie to take the lead. Her ability to walk unaided was precarious. She could sustain an injury from a fall.

As he tugged sheets off