And then there was no light.I fingered worn wood drawers- their racket open a cringe in ear, fumbled contents an echo in kitchen- for a dim protector of sight: flashlight like modernity's heirloom.

I stepped out to night of little distinction, color a nuance, shape a shade. A point of orange raging then still shows Ron smoking and his garage, I guess, open. An inclination of dark against luminescent stucco must be Madeline's hair sliding over the baby.

Sound steps in the grass. I jerk to my right. Moving in pixilated dim, a faint white smear. You out too? You out too? I believe we're neighbors by commonality's cold comfort. The white smear leaves. I'm alone on a dead road.

Back inside children clutch their toys and wide-eyed guide the beam. Midwives of the elemental, they search wavering corners for ghosts I've grown used.