She lay motionless on the bed, the lined face turned toward the papered wall, her gray hair tangled and mussed. Mr. Brown watched silently. Turning, he slowly moved toward the smelly kitchen. He was startled as he passed the cracked mirror leaning against the wall. The movement scared him until he recognized himself: The ragged brown coat, the tired sad eyes, the slow plodding movements. He enjoyed a last taste of supper and a drink of water.

    Mr. Brown quietly reached the sagging screen door leading to the night sounds. Hoping for a cool breeze, she had left the backdoor open. The tired screened door floated open at his touch. Glancing back over his shoulder – she had not heard him – he silently moved outside onto the wooden step. The door closed without a sound. He stood in the darkness, relishing the cool night and the cicadas undulating whir. Mr. Brown could pick out other night sounds: motor noises in the distance, tree frogs and a bullfrog on the pond. His eyes adjusted to the semi-light and he could sense – no, he could smell – creatures out there just beyond the kitchen’s light. He knew they were out there: The beings inhabitating the night.

     He shivered slightly even though the brown coat was warm. Anticipation surged in his veins and he stepped off the porch to explore the evening. It hurt to climb down the steps, but most everything hurt any more. The price of too many summers. The air was heavy with rain and fragrant with an approaching storm. Mr. Brown moved out into the night. Freedom at last!

    The summer storm hit while he was in the woods. An abandoned shed loomed in the darkness and he eagerly took shelter there to wait out the rain. Tiny night creatures made scurrying sounds in the dark but Mr. Brown was not afraid. He sat on the dry dirt floor and waited.

    The wet grass and weeds soaked the heavy brown coat as he hurried back to her. Dreading the pain, he moved slowly up the crooked board steps. What luck! The flimsy door, swollen with night humidity, had not completely closed. Silently he pryed the door open.

    Moths and June bugs circled the kitchen’s bare light bulb. She was motionless on the bed. She had not heard him. She had not moved. His eyes furrowed. Mr. Brown slowly approached. Afraid of her reaction, but more afraid of no reaction, he touched her arm. It was cold. And stiff.

    A crying sound stuck in his throat. The hair on his neck stiffened as he sensed a grim Presence. Eyes reflecting a thousand years of understanding, he anxiously circled the room then lay on the rug next to the bed. Tucking his paws under his muzzle, Mr. Brown waited.