I woke to the smell of fresh wood. Sawdust and varnish and something else—something like the hardware store aisle where Daddy bought paint thinner and brass screws. The scent cut through the formula-fog in my brain and pulled me toward consciousness.

My eyes opened. The crib bars were still there, pink sheets still tangled around my legs. Pacifier still in my mouth. But across the study, near the window where afternoon light pooled on the Persian rug, something new had appeared.