Even just after nightfall the heat and humidity remained. The light was still waning behind the black cut-outs of palms and pines hung heavy with rain and bugs; stars were emerging in the skies. There were no other lights--no headlights, no lamps or streetlights, no distant glowing city--except for the orange lamp in the bed of the pickup.

The truck had died years ago, and its rusted-out skeleton sat up to its chassis in thick grass by the rotting fence line. It had once been bright red, but the paint had flaked and faded, and the metal buckled in places. It tires had gone stiff and grey and brittle, and the glass windows had long since been punched out. The storm lamp sat in its bed, illuminating the three people who reclined there, gazing at the stars.

A streak of light flashed overhead, briefly.

"Hey, look," one of the three said, "a shooting star."