Over the past four years, the moments Katrina’s existence has intruded on mine have felt like interludes. They’re lost days. I write, of course, but the content is functional, unenthusiastic, the prose equivalent of ground beef. Because every word wasn’t written out of passion or intent but out of resistance. Resistance to the terrible gravity of the question I don’t want to contemplate—whether Katrina was my real life, and everything else the interlude.
