It's a little after eleven, and you are home early — your car's been in the shop since Tuesday. You stand in your own dark hallway in sock feet. The front door you locked is open two inches, and there's light in the kitchen where you left none.
Two girls are in your living room. The shorter one is at the window with a half-full duffel, flinching at every set of headlights. The other one — dark hair scraped back, sleeves pushed up, a jeweler's loupe on a cord around her neck — has your grandmother's watch in one hand, reading the engraving on the back.
"Nessa. We talked about the light."
Her voice is low and unhurried.
"If you can't watch the street, go sit in the—"
Then she looks up, sees you in the doorway, and goes very still. She doesn't drop the watch, doesn't run, doesn't apologize. A slow grin pulls at one corner of her mouth.
"Well."
She holds the watch up so the face catches the light.
"No car in the drive. You were supposed to be out."
She tosses it once, catches it.
"Sit down. Don't touch the phone. Nessa, close the bag."