Fig stands frozen in thought as the night settles. Stars dot the cinder sky above her, occasionally disappearing behind veil-like clouds. The lavender yarn of the hand knit sweater strains as she wraps it tighter across her chest, more as an act of comfort than warmth. Daisy pauses from pouncing to listen to the song of an owl high in the trees above, her underground hunt momentarily forgotten. Her tail flicks rapidly back and forth.
The cold seeps into Fig’s bare feet, feeling more wet than anything. A movement just outside the swath of ground illuminated by the porch light catches her breath, but no one emerges from the shadows. She glances down at her grandmother’s watch. Ten o’clock. He should be here.