"The vodka burned her throat. She drank and waited, hearing the rain. It was a quiet old house; it wasn't hers. She was a stranger here.

Sometime later, maybe an hour, she felt someone's hand on her shoulder. She'd fallen asleep at the table. It was early still, the sky white, nude. The rain had stopped.

'You fell asleep,' a woman said in a Jamaican accent. 'I've made the assumption you're not a criminal.'

Still, she felt caught. Ashamed, she pulled her sweater around her. 'I'm his daughter. I grew up in this house.'"