In my mind it’s no primitive text file, but a basement chamber full of greenlit memories, beloved documents, the experience that spawned a hundred short stories and led me to look more closely at the lace detail of a leaf’s vein, to lend magic to a child’s discarded pail found in the woods or to the haphazard placement of a board across a muddy rut. In my mind the trails of my childhood backyard lead seamlessly into Crowther’s mazelike, forbidding caverns, rooms with names like Bedquilt, Misty and Slab Room.