Early. Late. It's all relative.

This is my favorite time of night. We love the dark, but it's dark at many other times at night, too, so that really has nothing to do with it. There's something about the quality of the air before 5am. Even the most determined humans are generally asleep by now. Some are just rising for the day, but even their movements are hushed and purposeful, as if they, too, have respect for this time of day.

Michael doesn't hunt humans, so sometimes if he goes out late, I'll go with him. I haven't done this in a while. Last night we ran clear to the Potomac. He doesn't have much to say, and makes a good hunting partner. Even at 4am, the humidity pressed down like a blanket. Once we were filthy and full, we waited by the water's edge, looking for the sun to come up. We'd done this many times when I was very young, after our parents died and I was too small to take care of myself. Doing this now allowed me to pretend, for a short time, that I was small and vulnerable again, and that my sole comfort in life was that my brother could protect me.

At that time of night, it was easy to forget our fighting.

But then sunrise came, and we had to come back to the house.

When the phone rang at eight, he answered, though he knew it was for me. Rebecca. Her call, though welcome, yanked us out of our peaceful past and into our angry present.