The wool is damp. You know the texture of it. It clings to the shoulder blades, a heavy, wet fur. You are in the kitchen. The floor is linoleum. White. Cracked near the stove.

You are wearing the coat. It belongs to your mother. It is too large. It swallows you. You are small inside it. A ghost in a shape.

Margaret is at the table. She does not look up. She is peeling an apple. The knife moves in a long, continuous spiral. The skin falls in one long ribbon. Red. Brown.

You stand by the window. The rain is on the glass. Beads. Sliding.

"You are wet," Margaret says. Her voice is flat. Clinical.

"I am."

"Take it off."

You do not move. The coat is heavy. It weighs you down. You need the weight. You need to be held.

"I cannot," you say.

Margaret stops. The knife hovers. The apple skin hangs, a pale thread. She looks at you. Her eyes are dry. They are the color of tea.

"Why?"

You do not answer. You look at your hands. They are hidden in the pockets. The pockets are deep. You can put your whole hand in. You can disappear.

"The war is over," Margaret says.

"Is it?"

"Yes."

"You think so."

She puts the apple down. She wipes her hands on her apron. The apron is blue. Faded.

"Who sent you?" she asks.

"No one."

"Lie."

The word is small. It lands in the air. It does not fall.

"Who sent you?" she asks again.

You shake your head. The motion is slow. The wool shifts. It makes a sound like dry leaves.

"I am here," you say.

"You are not here. You are in the coat."

The room is quiet. The clock on the wall ticks. Tick. Tick. Tick. It is a mechanical sound. Cold.

Margaret stands up. She walks to you. Her shoes are silent. She stops in front of you. She is shorter than you. She always was. But she feels taller. She feels like a wall.

"Look at me," she says.

You look up. Her face is tight. There is a line between her eyebrows. It is deep. It has been there for years.

"Do you remember the house?" she asks.

"Yes."

"The one in the valley. The stone house."

"Yes."

"It is gone."

"I know."

"You know?"

"I heard."

She nods. Once. Sharp.

"Who told you?"

"Everyone. No one. The air."

Margaret smiles. It is not a smile. It is a tightening of the mouth.

"The air does not speak," she says. "The wind does. The air is dead."

You look at the floor. The crack in the linoleum. It runs like a river. A frozen river.

"I missed you," you say.

The words are strange. They do not fit in your mouth. They are too big.

Margaret steps back. She looks at the coat. Her eyes are hard.

"That is not a coat," she says.

"It is."

"It is a shell."

"It is warm."

"It is cold. It is always cold. You think it is warm because you are inside. It is not warm. It is empty. It is just space."

You pull the collar up. The wool brushes your chin. It is rough.

"Leave it on," you say.

"Take it off."

"I cannot."

"Why?"

"Because if I take it off, I will be gone."

Margaret stares at you. Her breathing is shallow.

"You are here," she says. "You have been here for three days. You sleep in the chair. You eat the soup. You speak to me. You are here."

"I am not here. I am in the coat. The coat is here."

She reaches for you. Her hand hovers over your shoulder. She does not touch you.

"You are losing your mind," she says. "The stress. The displacement. It is happening to all of them. The ones who crossed the line. They lose the thread."

"I have the thread."

"You have the wool. The thread is you. The wool is the trauma. You are wrapping yourself in it. You are burying yourself."

"I am surviving."

"Surviving is not living."

The rain stops. The silence is sudden. It is heavy.

Margaret goes to the sink. She turns on the tap. The water runs. Clear. Cold. She washes the apple core. She rinses the knife. The metal is bright. It reflects the light.

"You need to see a doctor," she says.

"No."

"Edward is coming tomorrow. He is a specialist. He works with veterans. He knows how to talk to them."

"Edward."

You say the name. It tastes like ash.

"Edward Ashworth," she says. "He was your teacher. He taught you history. Do you remember?"

You remember. The classroom. The dust in the sunbeams. Edward’s voice. Low. Steady. He spoke of empires. Of rise and fall. He spoke of cycles.

"He is coming," Margaret says.

"No."

"He is coming. I called him. He is coming."

You look at the window. The glass is clear now. The street is gray. A car drives by. Its lights smear.

"I do not want him here," you say.

"You do not get a choice. You are my child. I cannot let you rot in that coat. I cannot."

Her voice breaks. Just a little. A crack. Like the linoleum.

You look at her. You see the fear. It is in her hands. They are trembling. She is holding the knife. She is holding it tight.

"Margaret," you say.

She turns off the tap. The water stops.

"Margaret."

"What?"

"Did you send him?"

She blinks. "Send who?"

"Edward. Did you send him?"

She looks at the wall. She does not answer.

"Did you call him?"

"No."

"You did."

"I am your mother. I am trying to help you."

"You are not my mother."

The words are out. They are in the air. They do not come back.

Margaret’s face changes. The fear is gone. The hardness is back. But it is different now. It is colder.

"You are delusional," she says.

"I am not."

"You are."

"You sent him. You sent him to take me away. You sent him to fix me. To cut me open. To remove the coat."

"It is not a coat. It is a symptom."

"It is me."

Margaret picks up the phone. It is on the counter. The cord is black. Coiled.

"I am calling him now," she says. "I am telling him you are ready."

"No."

"You are ready. You have admitted it. You are in the coat. You are trapped. You need help."

She lifts the receiver. Her fingers are white.

"Wait."

She holds the phone up. She looks at you.

"Who are you?" you ask.

"I am Margaret Holloway. I am your mother."

"No. You are not."

"You are confusing me with someone else. This is part of the illness. The dissociation."

"You are not her."

"Who do you think I am?"

You do not answer. You look at the coat. The wool is damp. It is cold.

"You are the house," you say.

Margaret’s hand shakes. The phone drops. It hits the counter. It rattles.

She does not pick it up.

"The house is gone," you say. "You are the house. You are the shell. You are the coat."

Margaret steps back. She hits the counter. She stumbles.

"You are not my mother," you say. "My mother died in the valley. In the stone house. You are the memory. You are the echo."

"Stop," she says. Her voice is small. "Stop this. Please."

"I cannot stop. The cycle is not broken. It is here. In the kitchen. In the coat."

You take a step forward. The wool swishes.

"Edward is not coming," you say.

"He is on his way."

"He is not real. He is part of the coat. He is the thread that pulls. He is the blade."

Margaret’s eyes are wide. They are wet. Tears. They run down her cheeks. She does not wipe them.

"You are scaring me," she whispers.

"I am not trying to scare you. I am trying to see you."

"See what?"

"See if you are real."

You reach out. Your hand is free. You take it out of the pocket. You reach for her face.

Your fingers touch her cheek.

She is warm.

She is solid.

She is here.

You pull your hand back. The touch is electric. It burns.

"I am here," Margaret says. Her voice is thin. "I am here. I am real. I am your mother. I am not a ghost. I am not a coat. I am flesh. I am blood. I am here."

You look at her. You look for the lie. You look for the crack.

There is no crack. There is only a woman. She is tired. She is old. She is afraid.

"The coat," you say.

"It is just a coat."

"It is heavy."

"I know. I know it is heavy. I will take it off. I will take it off now."

She steps forward. Her hands are shaking. She reaches for the collar.

"No," you say.

She stops.

"I will do it," you say.

You look at the coat. You look at the wool. You have worn it for years. It is part of you. It is your skin.

If you take it off, you will be naked. You will be exposed. You will be cold.

But you are not cold. You are warm. You are here.

You reach up. Your fingers find the buttons. They are small. They are hard.

You unbutton the first one.

The sound is soft. A click.

You unbutton the second one.

Click.

Margaret watches you. She does not move. She does not breathe.

You unbutton the third.

The coat loosens.

You slide it off your shoulders. The wool falls. It is heavy. It hits the floor. It makes a sound like a sigh.

You are in your shirt. It is thin. It is white.

You are small. You are light.

You shiver. The air is cold.

Margaret steps forward. She wraps her arms around you. She holds you. Her arms are tight. Her heart beats against your chest. Thump. Thump. Thump.

It is a human sound. It is a mechanical sound. It is a life sound.

"I have you," she says.

"I am here," you say.

The coat lies on the floor. It is empty. It is just wool. It is just cloth.

It is not you.

You are here.

The clock ticks.

Tick. Tick. Tick.

The rain begins again.

You are warm.

You are cold.

You are here.