It’s a robber…it’s a murderer…oh, wait. It’s just ghosting season.
There’s no moon. I sit in my car on the side of a back-country road, lights off, hazards clicking in the blackness, hoping someone doesn’t call the police. I care about the environment, so I don’t leave my car running, but it’s 40 degrees out. The heat slips out the windows and night sounds settle in as I sit there, shivering, waiting for my accomplices to come back.
