I pull a strand of wild grass from the side of the road and chew the sweet end while Mother whispers promises into the telephone. Her right hip and shoulder press against the glass, and in that moment, surrounded by fields of rustling weeds and the low night sky, she seems small and completely alone. Just her and the moths dancing together in the pale light while darkness swallows everything around them.

Minutes pass. She hangs up and strides across the pockmarked road with her high heels clicking and her hips swinging to a tune that only she can hear. A loose curl bounces against her flushed right cheek, the way it always does after she’s talked to him on the telephone. I can’t tell if winding a strand of hair around her index finger is a nervous habit or a soothing motion. She throws her arms wide and hugs me tight. Air escapes my lungs with a hard whoosh.

“He’s coming,” she whispers into my ear.

“When?” I want dates and times. In one way or another, he is always on his way. He tells us he’ll be in Mkuze, only five hours’ drive from us. Or he has a meeting coming up in Golela, and it’s a quick hop across the border from South Africa to us. Next, he’s visiting Kruger Park with the other children and he might drop by for a few hours. Maybe he’ll show up. Maybe he’ll come this weekend . . .

“Saturday.” Mother is giddy with joy. “He wants to see you before you leave for boarding school. And he wants to see Rian. You know how he worries about Rian’s asthma. Missing school. He cares about us, my girl, but you know how things are.”

Yes, I know “how things are.” I am an expert in the unwritten rules that govern our family and the boundaries that can’t be crossed or even mentioned out loud. I was born knowing. Mother reminds me of “how things are,” on a regular basis so I’ll remember that certain things in life can’t be changed.

“Come.” Mother grabs my arm, and we retrace our footsteps back in the direction of home. The vacant land around us rustles with sounds: secretive porcupines digging up roots, the soft pads of a house cat hunting small creatures through the bush, and a nightjar’s escalating song. Mother hums “Oh Happy Day” under her breath. She used to sing in the church choir, and she has a lovely voice even now.

Car headlights swing off Center Path, and two bright beams illuminate the craggy length of Live Long Street. We automatically jump off the road and into the tall grass that grows thick along the edge. A truck speeds past, and we tuck our faces into the crooks of our arms to avoid being choked by dust. The white Ford pickup truck with a dented front fender belongs to Fergus Meadows, who lives in the house opposite ours and inherited his father’s lumberyard five years ago.