Night Vision

She was useless at dusk, a squinting mole of a woman, unable to drive, unable to distinguish faces or fonts or numbers of fingers being held up until they were inches in front of her—and by then, too late to react properly. This was genetic. Like her mother’s mother’s mother’s mother (and so on and on, she imagined, back to the Neanderthalic foremother, who died when she  stumbled  into the open maw of an unseen twilight predator), she sighed and put her book aside each day when the sun set.