I remember the bedroom I shared with my brothers (I was the youngest, clothes out of fashion and never quite fitting): bunk beds and a cot, a footlocker full of books, the dresser with one drawer crammed with paperbacks, stacks of magazines — Evergreen, Popular Science, and camouflaged caches of Playboy and National Lampoon; the floor, yellow linoleum flecked with gray, peeling next to the heat vent and showing the next layer, red and black (spatters of hardwood here and there); the doorless closet with the sloped ceiling, the south window unscreened. One summer night when I was ten, both brothers gone I don’t know where, I heard a rustling under the bed and turned on the light. As the chain clinked against the bulb, a bat flew out and perched on a green felt hat hung on the wall. I crept from the room and slept on the couch. In the morning, the bat was gone. I never mentioned it to anybody. This was one thing I didn’t have to share.