“I don’t know who or what Astrid is.” Trey stops, but he doesn’t turn around. “Maybe it’s someone I used to play with, or a neighbor, or a stuffed animal—maybe a babysitter. All I remember is that I would cry every night for Astrid.” Laughing humorlessly, I add, “I can’t even picture Astrid in my mind. Isn’t that crazy? To need something you can’t even remember?”
