. . . on a washed-out road over which branches formed a skeleton’s net, John’s pickup slowed to a stop.

  So did his breath.

  Up above, a parting cloud had wiped away a spot of darkness. Where the cloud had been, there was now a pale, fingernail sliver. A mystic crescent. It sat in the sky as if it was right where it was meant to be, as if it had been there all along.

  Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

  The moon.

  “What is it?” Mariah asked.

  “Something else,” John answered. “Something else.”