Nights, the girl came and stood at the edge of the yard.  From inside his unlit kitchen Pieter Voorster could just make out her dark shape, bulky in a parka, beneath the oak.  A car passed, headlights sweeping the yard.  Hoar frost covered the grass, and for a moment the girl flared into relief, dark against the silver lawn like the negative of a photograph.  She didn’t lean against the tree but stood, serious and attentive, looking up at Pieter’s son’s bedroom.  Posture achingly straight.

            It was nearly midnight. Pieter pulled the carton of milk from the refrigerator.  He turned on the overhead light, then turned it off, self-conscious about being so visible to the girl outside. From overhead came the faint noises of his daughter moving around.  She was seventeen and had begun to show signs of the night restlessness that afflicted Pieter.

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