I pace through the house, the nail on my thumb between my front teeth.

Upon reaching the linen closet at the end of the hall, I check the life-size reflection, carefully averting my own eyes staring back at me. I turn to go back to the kitchen.

I open the refrigerator door. But what I need isn't in here.

I twirl the hair at the end of my long braid vigorously around my finger as I walk back to my bedroom. I see the unmade bed and pile of clothes in the corner. Craft projects abandoned on the desk. The stack of books on the nightstand. But what I need isn't in here either.

Where is it?

What is it I need?