It is nearly ten o'clock, andfrom my chair I can hear pages turning crisply, slowly in another room.
Thinking I am the only one still awake, I walk the house until I find a canted box of light painting the hallway in front of my daughter's room.
I stand in the doorway with an elbow against the jamb, fist to my temple.
She's contorted in her bed, angling a book toward the lamp. One sweep of her finger reveals an ear.
She turns one page, then another. How long until she is just a snapshot on the fridge?