A creamy crescent moon and a slant of light from the landing light dimly lit Martin Mallory’s room that fateful November night.
But he couldn’t tell, he couldn’t see, his room could have been as bright as bright can be because his eyes were shut tight that enlightening night and the quilt on his bed pulled over his head.
He’d slowly counted a flock of sheep, but he still couldn’t sleep, for before he began hiding he’d been sure he saw his clothes on the floor, which lay in a heap, slightly moving.