One by one the lights in the house go out, until it joins the blue-green darkness of the street. There are houses all around it, identical every one; stucco walls of white or peach, spanich tile roofs, two stories, two cars in the driveway. Moths and flies whirr around the streetlamps. A warm breeze goes by, and the nails that hold the plastic mailboxes to their posts creak.
Behind the row of houses there is a small but deep pond, used to catch all the dirty water and pesticides that the once-a-week landscaping men spray over the grass and the flowers and the privets. Still there is life in the pond, a few dozen catfish and sunfish that the children like to catch. They must always throw them back, though, since their parents say that even though the fish are alive, their lives are poisoned, and not fit for eating. Minnows breed freely, and frogs wait patiently for dragonflies on the algae-covered edges of the water.
There is a girl that lives in the house (her's was the last light to be turned off), and every night before going to sleep she looks out her window at the pond. She is seven years old. The pond reflects the moon grey and the palm trees black. A few ripples run along the surface. She watches them all intently, for she is waiting for the ripple that will mean that She is coming out of the pond.
She knows that the woman will wait until all is silent and all the lights are turned off in the neighborhood. Right now, it is one o'clock in the morning. The girl holds her breath, looking out the window and not moving, not wanting to scare the woman. A fish jumps and the girl gasps. A frog croaks, she presses her hand and nose to the window.
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