She lay—at six years old? Seven?—on a blanket in the back garden, watching clouds drift across the sky. Then, all at once, the clouds were no longer there, and neither was Caro. She was nowhere and everywhere, woven into what she later thought of as “the fabric of the universe.” She was the clouds, the grass, the breeze, the ant crawling across her arm. Everything was her, and she was everything.
