(3) The call of owls at night, always interrogating. A fear of hairy tree demons crouched in the branches, smoking cigars. We went to school but left an opening, for in case any of that was true. Returning from funerals, we washed our hands by the door, in case the souls of the departed had followed our scent home. Under a froth of mosquito netting, an island from which to push off toward sleep. You tucked every fold carefully around the mattress, leaving no space. In the ceiling or in the floor, some houses held a secret door—one rusted handle coupled with an iron slide lock. Before the grownups retired for the night, sometimes they walked around the house perimeter, checking windows or scattering salt.