MOVING A ghost of myself in the window looked back under dark disheveled hair, the eyes puffy, dark underneath like a raccoon. I looked away; it was too early. We left just before dawn, the sky a painting for half an hour. The mountains, in purple shadow, rose above the river as we approached the Appalachian foothills. The beauty was doubled by its reflection on the still water at Riverside--pale blue meeting the soft rose shades at the horizon. I thought of Easter eggs, then forced myself not to picture Mary Carson, my daughter. I blotted out the image of her father sprawled on the bed, reeking of booze and mineral spirits. She had been awakened in the night by his vomiting. After a coughing spasm he had strangled, then bolted to the toilet, spraying the waste of himself on the walls. “Working on the mural again?” I mumbled sleepily when he returned with the perpetual wet cloth across his forehead. A stab of pity came close to penetrating the vomit-splattered wall between us in the bed. Soon Mary Carson would be asking more than her innocent, “Is Daddy sick again?” I had to overcome inertia, make some choices. For her sake, I would.