Read by Jim Cogan
“What are you?” the old woman asked as darkness muscled in on our campfire. I’d met her on the road an hour before dusk, adjusted my pace to match. Offered to help carry her load, though she’d laughed at that. It was only when she was searching for firewood that I found out why. Her tattered canvas bags were filled with nothing more than bulbs stripped from car headlamps, each one tenderly wrapped in a rag.