She says she’s heard it countless times before, and I reach for her arm as we trudge through the underbrush. She’s agile and spry--as if this corner of the woods is her own living room--but it takes effort on my part. After a while she stops and looks at me expectantly, the moon illuminating one side of her face.
“I don’t hear anything,” I say, and then it strikes me. I don’t hear anything. The entire woods are silent--not a bird, a squirrel, a sound--anything.
“Just wait for it,” she says, then cranes her neck to look at my watch. “What time is it?”
I squint at the tiny glow-in-the-dark hands. “11:14.”
She smiles. “Three more minutes…”