People begin emerging from their houses in waves, first in cautious steps and then in rushed confusion, and the red light spilling across the territory paints every face in something that does not belong to morning, because the sky above us is no longer familiar and the air feels charged in a way that makes every hair on my arms stand upright.
The red moon hangs high and full where the sun should be, and its glow intensifies with every passing second until shadows stretch long and distorted across the ground, and wolves stand frozen in their yards staring upward as if waiting for someone to explain what cannot be explained.
“It’s getting stronger,” Atticus mutters beside me, and I can feel it too, not just in the air but in my bones, because something ancient is pressing outward from ben
