to everything there is a season

Mlle B pushes her supper away: "Can I save the rest for later?"

"Sure," I say. "Aren't you hungry?" (She's more tired, in fact: it's the relentless sleepovers. An accumulation, as her grandmother used to say, of late nights.)

She looks at me wearily. "It's just a bit weird, eating hot food when it's still light out."