It crossed.
It kept going.
“You’ve changed,” she said, at the door.
“No,” I said. “I sat still. You’re the one who kept moving.”
She left.
The bracelet flashed once under the porch light, and then the dark had her.
I sat in my chair in the hall for a long moment, looking at the door.
Ten years ago, I hadn’t been able to follow a door.
I’d been in a hospital bed with a baby on my chest and a three-year-old in the hallway, and the door had closed, and I had listened to a suitcase go down a corridor and had not been able to do one single thing about it.
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