If one were recording history, one might write that at the moment man invented the world’s fi rst clock, his wife was alone, softly crying, while he was consumed by the count. Dor and Alli stayed on the hillside that night. She slept. But he fought his weariness to be awake when the sun rose. He watched the sky change from night black to deep purple to a melting blue. Then a burst of rays seemed to whiten everything, as the dome of the sun poked over the horizon, like the golden pupil of an opening eye. Had he been wiser, he might have marveled at the beauty of the sunrise and given thanks for being able to witness it. But Dor was not focusing on the miracle of the day, only on measuring its length. As the sun appeared, he slid the lower bowl away from the upper bowl’s dripping, took a sharp stone, and notched the waterline. This, he concluded—this much water—was the measure between darkness and light. From now on, no one needed to pray for the sun god to return. They could use this water clock, see the level rising, and know dawn was coming. Nim was wrong. There was no divine battle between day and night. Dor had captured them both in a bowl. He dumped the water. God saw this, too. 10 Sarah is anxious. She hurries down the steps in her still-warm black jeans. She feels a fl ush of panic. She remembers a night two years ago, one of the few times she’s gone out with a boy. A Winter Formal dance. A kid from her math class. His hands were clammy. His breath smelled like pretzels. He left with his friends. She had to call her mother to pick her up. This is diff erent, she tells herself. That was a weird boy; this is a young man. He is eighteen. He is popular. Any girl at school would want him. Look at his photo! And he’s meeting her! “What time will you be back?” Lorraine asks, looking up from the couch. Her wineglass is nearly empty. “It’s Friday, Mom.” “It’s just a question.” “I don’t know, OK?” Lorraine rubs her temples. “I’m not the enemy, honey.” “Didn’t say you were.” She checks her phone. She cannot be late. Eight-thirty! Eight-thirty! She yanks her coat from the closet. Victor is anxious. He taps his fi ngers on the desk, waiting for Research. Grace’s voice comes over the intercom. “Honey? Are you hungry?” “Maybe a little.” 3
5 Publizr Home