Zenith Brown

“We moved across the grass. It was cold through my slippers, and the tall blades on the edge, where Julius’s sickle had missed, brushed against my bare ankles, sharply intense. At the hedge I pulled back a branch of white althea for Alice to pass. Released, it brushed, softly cool, against my shoulder. I started so that Alice stopped. “What is it, Grace?” she whispered. “Nothing, darling.” I pressed on my flashlight. A white moth dashed out of the dark, an enormous potato bug trundled across the dirt path. “I’ll just get my bag out of the car,” Alice said. “If you’ll lend me your light and give me a hand with the doors.”
― Zenith Brown, Ill Met by Moonlight