Page 48 of Night Shift

Petra takes her place at the top of the boat ramp wearing her old competition leotard over black leggings and the cosmic fury of a woman deprived of REM sleep. She raises a borrowed karaoke microphone.

“We’re here to remind the universe we’re not afraid of the dark!”

A cheer goes up.

“That we can stretch and breathe and be alive! This is our town, and apparently this is our night, so we’re taking it back!”

More cheers.

I smile despite myself.

Petra lowers the microphone and catches my eye.

“Justice,” she mouths.

I shake my head.

The opening pose is Moon Salutation, which Petra’s pamphlet insists is a real tradition. Whether that is true or something she found on Pinterest at four in the morning, the effect is surprisingly beautiful. Nearly a hundred people move together beneath the stars, breathing in and out while the bay murmurs below us.

The goats settle onto the grass and chew.

Mrs. Garcia closes her eyes.

For the first time in days, Blackthorn Bay feels peaceful.

I look toward the edge of the crowd.

Erebus isn’t there.

I didn’t expect him to be.

Still, I feel him.

The temperature dips slightly, the wind settles, and something about the darkness becomes softer.

He’s watching.

I let myself take comfort in that.

Petra moves us into Warrior Two.

Then Triangle.

Then something she calls Revolved Half Moon, which looks less like yoga and more like an elaborate method of falling down.

Forty minutes pass.

Nothing goes wrong.

People begin laughing.

Somebody turns on music. One of the goats wanders between the mats and receives approximately thirty-seven scratches behind the ears.

Maybe this is what adaptation looks like.

Maybe we really can⁠—

“Um...Petra?”