We tracked the full moon through the city, each time coming up empty in our search. A bad guy had stolen it, or a fool with a net, who’d rather have it for his own than have others enjoy it, too. What did we want with it? A conversation about the nature of the night. A difficult repartee about light and its effect on the werewolves. The chance to play, as if with a toy that we ran ragged as children. The moon was smart enough not to be caught. It pierced itself in the tallest tree and waited for day to arrive, and for it to quickly disappear. We wouldn’t be able to climb there, even with a ladder borrowed from the fire department. God knows they’d like to have a word with it, too. To wash away fires with tides, blow them out with one puff from its man in the moon lungs.