Ballet

I could see okay when I started stringing the lights along the porch eaves, but the dark kind of snuck up on me, the storm lowering while I was working, snuffing out the dusk, flakes big as nickels piling up on me and the ladder. By the end I was wire-tying the icicle lights more by feel than anything else. Mom would have killed me for taking the chance, but I was down on the porch, untangling the last string, only one more trip up the ladder, when I saw the truck idling down the block a ways, lights off.

It was impossible in the dark to tell, but I set the lights down and walked out across the yard, cutting the first tracks in the new snow. Once I got to the street and walked past the Chisholms’ house, I could see the tool rack, the dent in the fender.

Want to read more?
Please login.
New to Narrative? sign up.
It's easy and free.
The password field is case sensitive. Account & Password Help.