The screen door slams behind her, a sound I haven't heard in this old farmhouse in years. There she is, my daughter, haloed by the late Oregon afternoon sun, a duffel bag at her feet and the ghost of the little girl I used to know in the curve of her smile. Eighteen years old, and the whole summer stretches before us like the endless rows of Douglas firs on the hillside. The air smells of pine and distant rain, and for the first time in a long time, this quiet place feels full of possibility.