Near midnight in Felt Presence, the lamp asked whether it could have a moon.

A skeleton cut one from silver paper and hung it inside the shade.

“Too close?”

“No,” said the lamp. “That’s the distance I wanted.”

The moth came over to inspect it. He turned once beneath the little crescent, then settled beside his thimble desk.

“Will it be full later?” asked the lamp.

The skeleton looked at the leftover paper.

“Possibly Tuesday.”

The ghost drew his blanket around himself.

For a while, nobody said anything.

Then the lamp whispered, “Could Tuesday be tomorrow?”