The moon. Full. It got him every time. No fur sprouted. No fangs. Just the flood. At seventy-five, peace should have come. It hadn’t. The moon dredged it all up. A jingle from 1986. The first chilly wind in September. Harry Anderson’s deadpan on Night Court. Triggers. All triggers. They hit hard and clean. Left him raw. No words for it. No one to tell. The rush came without warning. So, he kept alone. Always had. As a boy, he’d climb to the attic. Pull the ladder up behind him. Read. Radio on low. Sometimes out onto the roof. Stars are cold and distant. Nothing helped. The moon wanes now. 99% tonight. Soon 98. Then 97. The grip loosens. Only the dog knows. The dog always knows. The rest see nothing. You learn to bleed inside.

(BETWEEN THETRACKS – Short Stories by Darryl Armstrong. Coming soon.)