Sundial

by Catriona Ward

The human sundial for which the house is named lies far from the road, in a cool cairn of rock. That’s a private place. It’s not for casual eyes driving by.

I buried my old self at Sundial. We need to leave parts of Callie here, too.

Usually she has this look in her eye, like I’m a rug she wants to straighten.

electronics for the dogs.

“Wouldn’t it be wonderful,” she said, longing, “to have rules? You’d always know what was right or wrong.”

I knew just what she meant. “If there were rules, no one would ever be disappointed in you.”

But we love them—or need them. Those two things can get mixed up.

You can only do three things with danger: run away from it, fight it, or make friends with it. I don’t know which one to do.

I’ve got no weapon and I can’t run away, so I’ll try making friends.

Fight, flight and fawn.

It’s possible to feel the horror of something and to accept it all at the same time. How else could we cope with being alive?

I read up on things because knowledge is a weapon. You can use it to keep yourself safe.

I should have left Irving long ago. But I thought normal was armor.