CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

It is Wednesday, then it is Sunday; it is morning and then midnight and now morning. I don't want to eat, or to read books, or be in the house, or feel Agnes' frightened eyes watching me. I just want to be outside, walking and thinking of nothing, and so that is what I do.

.

It's nearing full summer and dusk comes late, now. On the far fenceline past the arbor the hawks wait on their posts; they don't fly away as I walk past, but their carved, stern little profiles follow my step intently the whole way until I have slipped back into the forest.

.

One night I stand in the cold water of the pond so long that a smooth body glides itself against my calf, nibbles at my ankle with its jelly mouth. It must be the length of my arm. I don't grab for it. I ate yesterday. I am not hungry.

.

It is midnight and then morning and now midnight. The grandfather clock is on its fourth hollow chime when I open the glass case and pull out the brass weight. I don't need to know the time.