"Give me the hose..."

A Frisbee disturbs my peripheral vision followed by a brown blur of a dog which catches it. The smell of burning hamburgers is shepherded to my nose by dragonflies, but I don't dare turn my head because my adversary is waiting for an opportunity.

"Come on, give me the hose..."

She's a hunter, camouflaged in plastic sandals and a smiley face; a ten-year-old elf wrapped in a neon-green bathing-suit with a big daisy printed on it.

And, she's got me right where she wants me.

She lines me up in her sights like a marksman, and I know I'm in trouble. I knew I was in trouble when she asked for that book by Kasparov for Christmas.

The strap which should be over her left shoulder has fallen down almost to her elbow exposing a vertical scar which begins just below her neck and travels straight down It's paralleled on each side by a row of raised dots like centipede footprints.

I feel a sudden need to remember everything.

She coughs once and it's eight years ago. Raspy breath filtering through all the rooms populated by a hundred immaculate toys, neat and tidy - no chocolate fingerprints, no headless dolls, no melted crayons - just a tiny broken heart.

I made the beds before I left. Then, I remade them. Then, I made them again.

Automatic glass doors. An ambulance siren gets louder. Everything's going to be fine.

The best doctors. The best that money can buy. Everything's going to be fine. Everything's going to be OK. Fluorescent lights. She's going to come out OK. Everything's going to be fine. She's going to be fine. Plastic chairs. They know just what to do. They do this all the time. People in white. They do this all the time, and I've forgotten how to sleep. They do this all the time, and I've forgotten how to sleep. I've forgotten how to sleep. I made the beds before I left - as neat and tidy as the house, and she's going to come out of there, and she's going to sleep in that bed. She's going to come out of there, and she's going to sleep in her bed, and she's going to come out of there, but, oh my god, what if...

Eons eventually end, even when they're crammed into a single day. I brought her home. The orange antiseptic stain wears away first. Then the staples fall out. Two hearts heal like someone crocheting a sweater in front of a mirror. And, she crawled, and she walked, and she ran. And, she took ballet lessons. And, she went to karate classes...

And, she's got me right where she wants me.

Her toes shift in the grass, and, I know I'm in trouble. She's faster than me; and she's smarter than me.

She is momentarily distracted by a butterfly, and I decide that this is my best chance.

I leap forward, my arm outstretched reaching for the nozzle.

She belts out one of those little-girl screams and hurls the sprayer straight up into the air.

I relax, proud of myself, waiting for the hose to land. Now it's her turn.

I don't make my bed any more. I just have a mattress with a pile of sheets, blankets and pillows, and when I sleep I dream about flying.