I think to call out to her first, gently, not to startle her, because she looks so much like one of the deer I sometimes see here, senses darting, alert for signals of danger. But after so little use, because I have never become a person who talks to herself, or to animals, or to plants, my voice refuses to be normal. “Can I do something for you?” I call softly, but my voice cracks and comes out, I know, gnarled, maybe menacing. She is startled, whirls to see me and stares. I feel badly. I have tried to keep people away, but I have never tried to frighten anyone. It is sad to see someone look at you with fear.

The words are better the second time. I clear my throat, smile, carefully put down my hoe and begin to walk slowly toward her. I wish for something in my hand to offer her, a piece of food, a gift.

“Can I do something for you?” I say again. She is watching me. I approach her slowly, slowly, giving her time to realize my kindness, my lack of will to hurt her. One must do that here with the animals. The things of nature are filled with mistrust.

She watches me still and waits. She does not bolt, the way some animals still do, although I have been here so long. Her face puzzles me, for it looks as if she wants to run, there is a wariness, and yet there is determination too, and she will not run. Closer, I think she looks ill, and I wonder where she has come from. I feel no welcoming; but also, and I am surprised at this, I do not especially want her to go away. I cannot say why.

I stop a few feet from her. She must say now what she wants, give me some sign, for I cannot go further. We stand silently looking at each other. Several times her mouth moves as if she will begin to speak, but each time she swallows back the words. I think I do not look unkind, although I do not know what she may see in my face.

Until finally: “Are you Abra Phillips?” Her voice is very soft, girl-like and high, trembling a little as if it is not her real voice but has just appeared, like mine, unrecognizable to her.

The words mean something to me. Somewhere in my mind, “Abra Phillips” is familiar, and I consider it. “Are you Abra Phillips?” Am I? I think, finally, that I must be; there is no one else to connect with the name.

“I believe I am,” I answer. I say it judiciously, for that is how I have weighed the answer, but she steps back a pace, and her expression tightens. I am puzzled; what is Abra Phillips that this girl, this slim person with large eyes, staring, should be so threatened?