19 CHARLOTTE MILLER
October 23
It was mid-afternoon when there was a knock at the door. I opened it to find a teenage girl sitting on the top step of the wrap-around porch. She appeared to be petting a small animal on a lower stair, but I couldn’t see it.
“You must be Ophelia. I’m Doctor Miller, but you can call me Charlotte.” The girl stood up to face me, but when I extended my hand, she did not reciprocate the greeting. Her eyes were wide, like she had seen a ghost. A car slowly inched across the road and a woman waved from the driver’s side. I waved back, and the car drove away. “Was that your mother?” I asked. The young girl flicked her eyes to meet mine for a second and gave a curt nod, which seemed to help her gain her composure.
“I, um, I like your cat,” she said.
“Oh?” I raise
