I pulled my hands back and stared out at the Merkowitz house at the end of the block. The single-story home sat on the corner at the bottom of a hill. When we were younger, Decker and I used to sled down that hill, landing in the middle of the Merkowitzes’ backyard. We’d yell louder and louder until we heard the back door swing open, and then we’d smile. Mr. Merkowitz would pretend to shoo us away, swatting at us with a rolled-up newspaper. Mrs. Merkowitz would smack her husband on the side of the head, much to our delight, and hand us plastic bowls to pile high with fresh snow.

Decker and I filled those bowls, week after week, year after year, and returned them to Mrs. Merkowitz. She’d coat the snow with vanilla and sugar and invite us in for a winter feast. I always tried to swallow the snow before it melted, but the only thing that ever reached the back of my throat was a cool vanilla liquid. Mrs. Merkowitz stopped inviting us in when her husband died of a heart attack five years ago. Not long after that, Decker and I stopped sledding altogether.

Over the summer, an oxygen tank on wheels began accompanying Mrs. Merkowitz around town. It rested in the aisle beside her at the movie theater and rode in the cart at the grocery store. It was only a matter of time, everyone said, until she succumbed to her emphysema.

Out my window, I saw that her path was unshoveled. Fresh snow piled up to her door. I wanted to be there. I wanted to scoop up the snow and knock on her door and ask her to make a winter feast. And before I knew what I was doing, I wrapped myself in a scarf, put on my boots, and stepped outside. I stood in the front yard, knee deep in snow, vaguely wondering what on earth I was doing. Surely Mrs. Merkowitz would be sleeping at this hour. Yet my feet moved forward in the darkness.

The shadow of a man crossed her front porch. It hugged the front wall, paused at the edge of the porch, and disappeared around the corner. A chill ran down my spine, but still I didn’t stop. I felt the pull, distinctly in that direction. I crossed the street and walked to the end of the block.

Here. The pull had led me right here. At the corner of the house, a shadow jutted out where no shadow should be. There were no potted plants, no forgotten packages, nothing to block the moonlight. I walked directly toward the shadow, more out of necessity than curiosity. And then it took off around the back of the house. And I, wearing snow boots, a scarf, and a flannel nightgown, chased it.

I chased it into the backyard, nearly pitch-black, shaded by evergreens and overgrown weeds. I heard footsteps ahead of me and walked faster. I had to see what was there. What was pulling me closer. I paused to listen again but couldn’t hear anything over my pounding heartbeat. And then I heard footsteps right behind me.

I spun around with my twitching hands held out protectively in front of me.

“Delaney?” My father stood a few feet away. He pulled his bathrobe tight against the cold.

“Someone’s there,” I said. I pointed to the blackness in the backyard. The empty furniture. The deserted patio.

“There’s no one,” Dad said.

I ignored him and clambered onto the brick patio, searching for signs of life. And still I felt the pull. Leading me right here.

“What are you doing out here?” he asked.

“I don’t know. I just . . . couldn’t sleep.”

He nodded. “Dr. Logan mentioned that this could happen. Come on in.”

“Okay,” I said, but my feet didn’t follow. He rubbed his face with both hands and took a step toward me. I turned back around and stared at the dark windows, at the empty yard, willing the shadow to return. I knew that it was weird for me to stand in the snow-covered grass in the middle of the night for no apparent reason. It was even weirder for another person to be out in the middle of the night for no apparent reason. I wondered if that’s what had woken me up. Maybe my subconscious sensed him lurking around our street. Was he a burglar? A voyeur? Or worse?

“Someone was here,” I said again.

He didn’t respond. Instead, he scooped me up like I was a toddler and carried me back down the street to our home. He sat me down on the living room couch, but I stood back up, still feeling the pull. “I’ll make some hot chocolate,” he said.

I crossed the room and drew back the front curtains. The night was completely still. A vacuum seemed to exist between my house and the end of the street. I pressed my ear to the cold of the window and strained to hear footsteps. The man—there was a man, I was sure of it—must’ve been trudging through snow at least a block away by then. I held my breath until I believed I could hear the slow and steady crunch of boots on snow. I heard it, but I knew it wasn’t real.