Fiction | October 21, 2016

Craig drove home with his three-month chip in his pocket. His mom used to call night drives insect massacres, and he’d always been sad to see all the bug bodies plastered against the front of the car after. But driving at night was beautiful, especially out here, past the dark, looming mountains, the stars so weird and bright they pricked your eyes. He rolled down his windows and took big breaths of the night air. A moth bleared into his windshield and left a puff of powdered sugar and yellow gook. It was then that he saw a light on in his house. He was a few miles out. Soon the light grew into a lush and friendly orange. The color deepened mile by mile, and then he knew.

When he turned onto the dirt road, losing traction and swerving and regaining it, there were fire trucks outside his house. Bob’s house. The sound of the burning was loud, and he smelled charred cedar.

It was then that he noticed Ben barking from the upstairs deck.

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