Sarah sits in the chair on the deck and reads. Above her flit the bats. It is not yet entirely dark. The sun glows red over the houses over there. She can still see the words on the page, and the light from the open curtains helps.

For years, bats had lived under her shutters without her knowing. Her father had swept the droppings from the front porch each morning. Then the house was painted, the shutters removed, and the painters, startled, murdered the bats. It made no sense that she should be sad, that she should miss these things she had not known were there.

The painters did a fine job. They spent an extra day sealing cracks around the foundation and perfecting the eaves. Her mother told her to not get dressed in her own room; perhaps her curtains were not thick enough; perhaps the painters were perverts. In the bathroom with the lights off, Sarah stripped down. It was not yet entirely dark; Sarah had not yet been kissed like that.

The light from the inside comes out. Sarah scoots up closer to the house, and when it is too dark for that, she puts the book down. The bats have gone. They must roost somewhere nearby. The sun glows red lower over the houses over there. The bats pass back in front of it. Their wings open and close. Against the burnt corners of the sun, Sarah can see into them, through them. The little veins. The almost-nothingness. On the other side of the house, someone rings the doorbell. But no one is inside to hear.