The siren starts at three in the morning. We step bleary-eyed from our houses, arms tied behind us in figure eights. None of us have ever seen the sky quite as red.
Pink moon, observes our neighbour.
Dogs rush past our legs, howling. The fir trees seem lit up like a sports field. A baby cries, and we begin to shiver.
Our neighbour collapses. My wife grips my arm with impossible strength.
He’s dead, she says.
Lower body fat, I tell her.
Is that why we had a midnight snack?
Could be, I say, watching a dog’s jaw dislocate from pain.