We were living in the tall house in Bielsko. Asia’s childhood home. Our bedroom was cozily up in the large attic space. Maya, who was four months old, woke up at midnight. I put down The Tombs of Atuan and began carrying her cuddled form back and forth along our habitual L-shaped route: straight along the length of the ironing board, then right-angle turn at the diamond-shaped window into the corner of the attic, then a practiced spin on the heel of my sock and back.

On one pass of the ironing board, before completing the base of the L, I stopped at the diamond window. The house’s red metal roof was complicated and creased like an origami rendering of the Alps. The diamond window overlooked a foreshortened spur of roof ridge extending out into space. At that moment, a marten appeared on the ridge. It did a diagonal dash and disappeared over the edge of the roof.

Maya slept through it all.