Zoe liked stormy weather, once. Blackouts, too.

They'd meant dinner by candlelight, Mama's smiles during bayou country fairy stories and ghost tales, intimate looks through low light around the table. Her and Lucas playing like ferrets, when they were little, under and out of hiding spots, mock-yelping at lightning flashes and thundercrashes.

Bed feeling warmer, body wrapped in blankets of down, house wrapped in water and dark and a wall of sound.

She understood, now. Thunderstorms were for daring children's play.

Eveline the inheritor.

When moons rose into the rainy season, Zoe walked quieter, listening for what new game'd begun.


July 6th. "Thunder".