There were bats in the attic when she woke up. Her dreams had been filled with their cheeping, filtered through her subconscious mind into a haze of small alarm clocks with tiny, orange-pointed beaks. But when she awoke she could hear the rustling of their wings up there in the rafters, and see the dark shadows moving against the deeper black of the roof itself. She remembered, in her vague, half-awake state, that bat houses sometimes sat empty for years before the bats accepted them, used them, and yet here they were, swirling through the top of her house. Then the realization clicked against the back of her skull: There were bats. In the attic. With her.