But from where I watch, dry and sheltered in the Jam, I feel no worry. Kyle’s nearby, playing “Be All Right” on his guitar. He whispers in my ear, “It’s not done, girl.” His guitar’s strings make a weird, stinging thwack. I wake up a bit. Thwack. Silence. Did I hear something for real? A dripping faucet? Rain? Maybe animals, in the attic. We had that once in Portland. Raccoons, I think. Thwack. I roll to my side, open my eyes and blink the dim digital numbers of my clock into focus. One-fifty-two. No light seeps from under my door. That means Dad’s asleep. Right? Thwack. Something hit my window! I slip out of bed and flex my toes in the cool fibers of my rug. Another thwack and I drop to the floor, my arms around my knees. Is it a bat? Are there bats in Wyoming? Big ones? Do bats break glass? Can bats even fly when it’s cold? A shiver wracks my body.
