Shion had been awake so long that her eyes were starting to water. She watched the table lamp bend and flicker in her vision, and sat bolt upright.

For a moment she'd been six years old, exploring the weed-choked lot behind her house with Jin. It'd been dark, that one time.

She remembered the flickering place between two clumps of sweet peas. She still swore it had shrunk back at her approach. Her eyes had watered then, too: she'd felt so lonely. She'd reached, slowly, toward the glow.

Present again.

Seventeen years' experience taught her the danger that loneliness posed.