She sleeps in a glass room in the backyard. Back here, behind the house, she can't hear the knocks on the door and so can wake on her own time, though time is not hers anymore. She has thought of her bed as a coffin enough times that it is one, her bed a sun-baked rectangle of earth surrounded by planters. Every night, she leaves the glass room and threads through the yard, car keys in hand. And she drives.
In seven days, she'll be departing from Spokane and flying her way with strangers toward Dublin. A few connecting flights, a few conveyor belts, a few drinks and sighs and general-interest magazine articles later, and she'll be in . . . Amsterdam, and will get to visit with an old college chum, and then back to the airport and to. . . Dublin and the Eighth Annual Phoenix Convention (March 4-6 @ The Central Hotel). A reading will be involved as well as sitting in on a few interesting panels, such as perspective in writing.