It’s difficult to explain the appeal of such a painstaking act of acclimatization, except to say that every small step forward feels gently monumental. A few nights ago, Agnes rolled over in bed and fixed Stephanie with the sort of quiet, unworried look she only ever seems to take on during periods of darkness. The real Agnes, as Stephanie has come to think of this look, only visible when the light’s too bad to see it. I feel, Agnes said that night, apropos of nothing very much, like I’ve known you for years, and Stephanie smiled at this. Isn’t it odd that we never say that to the people we’ve
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