It’s almost 1 a.m. and my 11-year-old daughter just came downstairs and interrupted my watching a terrible Kevin Spacey movie about Bobby Darin. The way she charged into the room and then just stood there, I could tell she was sleepwalking.

“I just wanted to tell you something,” she said. “There are these two pieces of driftwood on my bed.”

“Okay,” I said, gratefully switching off the movie. “C’mon.” She went into the kitchen and I called after her while I gathered up the remnants of a late snack I’d had of an orange, some filet, and a glass of shiraz: “Wait for me. Just wait there.” I didn’t want her roaming around the house. I came into the kitchen and set the plate and glass on the counter and got myself some water for my bedside. She waited in the dining area. “Okay,” I said, “You can show me that driftwood.”

We got upstairs and she turned on her bedside lamp and slipped into bed, running her hand over the coverlet to her right. “I don’t know what happened,” she said, feeling where the driftwood had been. I knew from experience that just minutes before, she had seen and felt that driftwood right there. “It was right here.”

“I know,” I said. I turned off her light and kissed her good night. “I’ve had it my whole life.”

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