“You were having a dream,” I said, though my throat felt dry. “People do not come into our house at night.”
“He was there,” Sonia said, her voice dropping into her usual quiet monotone. “He went into your bedroom. Mom let him in.”
I looked back at our house, the quiet white colonial on Elm Street where we had lived for six years. The green shutters were still pinned back, and the kitchen window was dark. Clara was still inside, probably putting her shoes on for her shift at the elementary school.
“Did you see his face?” I asked.
Sonia finally got the zipper of her pink backpack to slide shut and tugged at the strap.
“No,” she said. “He wears a dark jacket. He stays in the dark.”
I backed the sedan out of the driveway, the tires crunching on the gravel, but my mind was stuck on the image of our hallway at midnight. I had slept through the entire night, waking up only when my alarm went off at six.
