By Sam Gridley

“I want you to come home,” she says. It’s a firm voice, a command.

Still half-asleep, I set the phone down and step into the backyard, where the rain-splotched patio sucks at my bare feet. Now that the downpour has stopped, early-morning sun carves through the trees, but the air feels too brisk for July. Maple seeds lie scattered around the lawn. The long grass blades glitter, lemony on the high side, wet purple in the shadows.

“Come home,” she said.

Who WAS that?

My wife and children are asleep upstairs, my parents long dead, and my sister doesn’t live anywhere near a place I’d know as “home.” Yet the voice was so familiar—husky and urgent, remote from these leafy ’burbs.

As I turn back to the house, my heel skids in a cold puddle, and I notice I’m naked except for my T-shirt. Am I dreaming?—that would explain it. But the voice had the steel of reality.

“Come home,” she said.

Who WAS that?