My daughter drew four stick figures. She labeled the extra one "the other mom — she sleeps under my bed."

I laughed. I said, "Great imagination, bug."

She corrected me the way six-year-olds do — patiently, like I was the slow one. "She's not imagination. She only comes out when you're asleep so she doesn't scare you."

That night I lay awake listening to the house. Nothing. Of course nothing.

At 3:40 I got the flashlight, knelt beside her bed, and lifted the blanket that hangs to the floor.

The space underneath was empty. Swept clean.

Someone had lined up her shoes in a neat little row — facing out, like something that had been inside and was ready to leave.

From the hallway behind me, my daughter whispered, "Don't look. She doesn't like being watched."