chewblacca

The sky at the end of the cycle went purple and orange, the way it always did, like something slowly bleeding out. Only one of the twin moons was up, and the air was wet and warm. The glowing things the children called shimmer-flies were everywhere, drifting through the tall grass in lazy loops, pulsing soft light.

The GoPro came on the way it always did - a two-second boot tone, a flash of menu, then the wide-angle lens settling on Lance Harmon's garage in Brandon, Mississippi at nine-fourteen on a Saturday morning in September, the light outside already thick and honey-yellow the way Mississippi September light gets when it's warming up for something unpleasant. Lance was doing what Lance always did when he was nervous-excited about a ride - talking.