There once was a boy with a door in his chest. He was born this way, and his parents called him August. As a baby, August hid toys and bugs with rattles and springs behind the door in his chest. These days were spent on top of high kitchen cabinets, on bookshelves and shoulders, and August’s first words were “Chka-chka-chka!” In Elementary School, August used the door to impress his friends. With a flute in his chest, he could whistle the song of any bird. August once put leaves behind the door, and for a day spoke the language of trees, and told his friends all the secrets an oak had seen from its plot at the center of the playground. There was the day when August and his friends came upon a dead frog, still and silent between the white lines of the four-square court. There are friends who will pick up a dead frog found on the schoolyard blacktop, and there are friends who will want you to pick up a dead frog found on the schoolyard blacktop. August found himself facing a dare, and, being that boys live their lives by what is written in comic books and on bathroom walls, August opened wide his chest and placed the dead frog inside. He fell into a coma, and did not wake for ten days. August’s parents talked with the boys who had placed the dare, and the principal and assistant principal and school counselor and assistant school counselor talked with the boys, but when August opened his eyes there in his hospital bed, he did so laughing and pale and, of course, forgiving. Though for a long time after, he did not use the door.

In High School, August met a girl with long black hair like a waterfall on a moonless night. She was Summer. She asked him once why he walked with paper noises at every step- crinkles and folds and tears- and he could not answer. He could not tell Summer that his door was stuffed cheat-sheets and old tests he had bought from a friend’s older brother for five dollars and a Coke in a green glass bottle. He could not tell her that his fingers knew all the answers in class, that his chest was full but his mind empty. He could not tell her that he, August, the boy with a door in his chest, cheated. He did not tell her these things until many years later, but August did empty his chest, and threw bundles of cheat-sheets into the blue recycling bin at home, and came to school one day with no answers but one, an answer that came from Summer’s quick smile and bright eyes. Soon he walked again with paper noises in his chest, but these were wonderful notes from Summer, and the passing scores on tests and in-class essays came, at last, from August’s mind, which had no door but no walls, either, and could never fill. At lunch, August and Summer would sit and watch the sky, and August talked of all the things he could never put behind the door. He would like a cloud in his chest, or a sunset, or a thunder storm. Summer, with her head on August’s chest, could hear the rustle of her notes. August said he would like to catch the first snowflake of winter and place it behind the door. Winter’s not for nine months, said the girl, but you already have summer.

They married after college. This was not soon, though, for August never graduated. His concentrations were manifold; a painter’s palette in his chest enchanted him with art, a calculator commanded columns of numbers across chalkboards like marching ants, and when his door opened to history books, he heard whispers of generals and philosophers, and dreamed of battles on stormy seas. After seven years, August was satisfied. Without a diploma, or even a graduation cap, he knew enough to marry Summer. They married atop a seaside cliff, high above the clouds, at sunset. The sky was ablaze in colors reserved for such occasions: the bright orange of passion, the blue of melting ice, and the deep pomegranate of a hearbeat. The ceremony was small and perfect. Summer’s parents placed a down-payment on an apartment for three, just across the river. August’s friends made a shirt with a doormat on the front. August laughed, and wore it on weekends. August’s door would not open for a while after. They moved into their riverside apartment, and August worked as a waiter, and Summer worked as a mother, for she was pregnant. They saved money and time in pickle jars on the kitchen counter. August painted pictures of Summer. He painted what their baby would look like. He said, she will be a girl, with blue eyes like your father, and blond hair like my mother. His door stayed closed.

She was born on a cold night in December, near Christmas. Her birth was not perfect, but what births are? She weighed five and a half pounds, and her eyes were blue. They named her Wendy, after Summer’s grandmother, but at night near her crib, both called her Winter. What is there to say of newborns? She was at times quiet and joyful, and some days she wailed like the winds off the river that ran by her bedroom window. She brought August and Summer wonder and frustration and never-ending love. Many nights, August woke fearing for her life, and leapt to her crib where Winter lay asleep and safe. And then one night, August did not wake, and Winter died. Summer found her in the morning, with her face blue and heart still. Summer did not scream. August felt tears in his eyes when he woke, and knew what had happened. There was a burning in his chest. August walked to the crib and folded Summer into his arms. She too felt the heat of his chest, and cried out. I am burning, he whispered, because I have summer inside of me.

August opened the door in his chest and placed the still Winter inside. The door closed. August collapsed.

From behind the door in August’s chest came a shrill wail. Summer opened the door and raised Winter to her face. The child was pink and crying and alive. Summer’s tears fell on the body of August. His face as pale, his eyes were closed, and the door in his chest gaped open. With Winter cradled in one arm, Summer knelt and closed August’s door. Her fingertips grazed his chest. Summer gasped. A bare heartbeat, faint as starlight, pulsed from under his cold flesh. August was alive.

Winter sprouted sunlight for hair, and learned to say mama and dada and cookie. At school she found solace in crayons and song. Teachers delighted in her skill with numbers and her appetite for history. She spent lunches observing the migrations of clouds. After school, she exhibited her tests and homework to her father. Every evening, Summer called for dinner, and Winter kissed her father on the cheek and ran down the stairs. Summer served spaghetti or chicken or fruit salad, washed the dishes, then visited her husband. She turned his pillows, washed his sheets, and brushed the hair from his eyes. August slept, as he had since Winter died. He did not stir, or respond to light or touch. His door, once shut, never opened. Summer told him of Winter’s art, of her music, of sunsets and the first snowflakes of December. Summer told him these things, and Winter passed Elementary School and High School, and graduated from college, and married and moved and gave birth. Summer’s black hair turned iron gray, and her eyes paled like the morning sky, and August aged in his bed. There were tragedies in the world, and miracles, and Summer woke every day to tell them to August.

And then one day, Summer sat down by August’s side, and found she hadn’t the energy to get up again. A black veil set over the corners of the bedroom. The joyful music of the river- ducks laughing, water giggling- sank beneath the silent roar in her ears. Her heart was tired of marching. Summer’s hand drifted gently to August’s. Their fingers found purchase in the fingers of the other. There was a gentle noise, like the sleeping breath of a giant, and light. The door in August’s chest opened.

It opened for Summer.