Because of her clarity, gained by never sleeping, Amanda was really the first to understand that her father was taking over the whole house, transfiguring it with new forms and materials.
He began slowly with one quiet living room window, low and free form, molded in polycarbonate, without corners or right angles, like a floating, out-of-focus bubble rising up the white plaster wall. Set almost precisely at an eleven-year-old’s eye level, it looked up the banking of ferns that faced that side of the house, and it was tipped slightly out at the bottom to capture the cool, accurate northern light.
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