Father told us that three or fewer moons meant bad luck was coming that day.

There was only one moon the day of the accident.

Mother and Father had taken the truck to the space port to pick up Grandmother. I remember the dust swirling out from beneath the truck, curling up and around the rising crescent of Cambra, obscuring her with a brown film. The other four moons had already set before sunrise, so Cambra would be the only moon in the sky today.

I was never much of a believer in superstitions; most of us kids weren’t.

—- —- —- NOTE: This isn’t working very well, and I’m about to fall asleep. I like the idea here, but I can’t stick with it enough to turn it into a workable story right now. Time for bed. Maybe I will return to this when I’m feeling more focused. —- —- —-