And then, as if a hidden hatch had opened somewhere inside her, she went backward.

She was six years old. Summer. A yellow dress with tiny white flowers. Her hand tucked inside her father’s large hand. They were coming down that same corner, only then everything had seemed huge to her. The sidewalks wider, the people taller, her father almost unbeatable. He smelled of soap, sweat from work, and cigarettes. And he, in a voice that back then meant safety without her knowing it, had turned and said to her:

“Shall we go for ice cream?”