. . . 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.

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  The moon.

  “What is it?” Mariah asked.

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