In the darkness, the knock somehow seems directed at me, as if one of the people next door, I think the man, is trying to tell me something, warn me of something. I lean over and knock back, very lightly. I hear nothing. I do it again, louder, with more force. I wait, hoping to hear a response, when a dry spot in my throat causes me to cough. It tickles, and despite my urge to remain silent, it only gets worse.

I put on my slippers and barely reach the kitchen when I’m in the throes of a full coughing fit. I’m holding on to the counter, keeled over. When the hacking finally subsides, I spit into the sink. A thread of saliva dangles from my bottom lip.

There’s a single potato sitting by the sink. I’ve had it there for weeks, maybe months. I took it out to bake. It’s sprouting now. There’s life locked in that simple, dormant potato. That little sprout will keep growing, and start moving toward the window and the light, the longer it grows.

Just this morning, as I made my tea, I listened to an interview on the radio with a professor, a plant biologist. It made me think of my father. He had such a fascination with nature and biology. As a child, he would tell me tidbits about trees and plants, how amazing they are, how durable and sturdy. I stood beside the radio and turned it up, thinking about Dad.

She talked about an experiment with two plants growing together and how it was possible for the cells of the individual plants to end up gathering meaningful amounts of DNA from the other. It was fascinating. I listened, transfixed. She went on to explain how horizontal transfers of genes were not abnormal in bacteria, fungi, and even plants. It happens when one organism moves genetic material to another that isn’t its own offspring.

A plant pursues life at all costs. I decide I should jot down her words.

Horizontal transfers of genes.

Pursuit of life at all costs.

Just as I’m putting down my pencil, the phone on the wall starts ringing, which startles me. It rarely rings anymore and never this late. My phone is near a window, and by the time I get there, it has stopped ringing. I stand looking out at the dark street. Two people walk by with a dog; cars pass.

Just before turning back, I notice a figure across the street. A person in a hat and jacket. Their face is obscured. Unlike the other pedestrians, and the cars driving by, the figure is completely still.

I step closer to the window.

The figure is not moving at all. How can a person stand like that, so perfectly inert, so fixated?

They appear to be staring up toward my window. At me. I can’t see their face. There’s a calmness to the stance. They are untroubled. So why does it make me uncomfortable? Why does it frighten me? I feel observed, violated.