From the doorway of her house, you can see the road. It's framed by two trees; straight-trunked and spread-branched. It's a narrow strip of bitumen. When two cars meet, each must dip two wheels into the roadside dust, keeping two on the glittering tarmac. When they've passed, the dust hangs in the hot air, yellow and misty.
Walk out of the door, down the path and between the trees. Now the road is no longer a licorice-allsort chunk of black and yellow. It is a strap of blackness, pegged down on either side by regularly placed trees. Look left and see an exercise in perspective as the road dwindles to nowhere and everywhere.
look right and you're looking into a curving funhouse mirror; the road bends and buckles and collapses into the dimple of a valley.
Look ahead through the trees and the ploughed furrows of the field lead away over the field, confirming its flatness and squareness with their perfect parallels.
Turn. The house was behind you, but now, standing on the road, you can see it looking out at the road.
It too is regular, square, a dark central rectangle flanked by glossy rectangular windows. Each window has eight panes in white-painted frames.

She is in there, asleep.

It's 2.30 in the afternoon.