I wake my daughter, tell her it’s time. She stirs from sleep, hurries to dress when she remembers where we’re going. We drive in search of a remote location, pull off to the side of the road near a ravine, car windows down for a clear view. Stars sprinkle the sky. The meteor shower arrives. Only the whine of cicadas and my daughter’s quick breaths break the silence. When headlights pull up from behind, my own breath quickens. A car door slams. The beam of a flashlight blinds me. I explain; he listens. No ticket tonight but we can’t stay.
Anne Anthony, editor and art director for the literary journal Does It Have Pockets, lives in North Carolina. Find more of her writing here: linktr.ee/anchalastudio.