12.20b

[I keep looking for comments and then remembering I haven't written anything. So here you go]

Everything started with Daniel, age seven. No one blamed him, not at the time. Of course, they didn't know what it meant. Maybe, if he hadn't lived in the smallest part of the largest city in the area, it wouldn't have happened. But this is a story of fact, not speculation.

Daniel left to go to school extra early, wearing his best sunday clothes with his best church shoes and his hair trimmed and neat. His mother was proud; it was picture day. Daniel was at school all day (his mother checked) and walked his normal route home (the baker saw him). When he didn't show up at home at three forty seven or forty nine like normal, his mother began to worry. She soothed herself with the thought that “he must have stayed to show off his new shoes to his friends” or “he must have stopped at the bakery to spend his allowance on a sweet roll” or “perhaps he made a friend he wanted to visit after school.” None of this worked. She called the baker: no Daniel. She called the school ma'am: no Daniel. She called her husband.

The police had no idea where Daniel could be. “How old is he, miss?” I'm married, actually. “Begging your pardon, ma'am. How old is he?” Seven. Eight, this June. “That's fine. What's his hair color?” Black, but browner down towards his neck and ears. “How tall is he?” Just so. “Big for his age, isn't he?” She choked back the tears. “Sorry, ma'am. Just a few more questions.” That's fine. “He hasn't been in any trouble, has he?” He's my baby boy. “That's fine. That's fine. We have all we need; we'll keep an eye out. You call us if anything changes.”

Daniel's mother left the front porch light on, just so Daniel could find his way home, just in case he was outside, just in case he was lost on his way home and needed the light. Daniel's father said it was going to be fine, and she should just turn the light off and come to bed. Daniel's mother disagreed. She sat in the front room until three in the morning, and then she laid in the front room until five, and then she slept, but not well, in the front room until five thirty, and six fifteen, and again until six thirty.

The next day (and the next, and all the subsequent nexts) Daniel's mother sat in the front room with the porch light on, waiting for Daniel to come home. The neighbors turned their lights on, to show their support. The old man on the corner had a street light put in, and never flipped the switch. The whole street glowed every night. Farther down towards the city, the full service gas station saw its business double because of the light, so the manager had floodlights affixed to the corners of his building. The restaurant next door followed suit. The hotel down the street noticed the light-advertising and put up a new neon vacancy sign, made to order just for them. The glassworks manufacturer started pitching his wares to every business in town. Soon, every door had an “open” “vacancies” “beer” sign on the door. After that, the hospitals, banks, and university were fully lit for security from the thieves that had been driven from the business district by the light.

The city itself saw an increase in revenue from the motorists stopping in the only island of light on the highway. The next town over caught the news and voted to put in street lights. Within a year, cities from New York to Los Angeles were brilliantly lit. Paris and London joined in, and Tokyo decided to light every street and start lighting the bay. Tourist destinations started aiming floodlights at edifices. National parks started lighting rock faces with sconces. Rock concerts started sweeping the sky with searchlights.

Everything was lit.

Daniel's mother was eighty when it happened. Her husband was dead. Her porch light was burned out. She no longer could contribute, but it was her fault. Earth—a rocky green globe, home to trillions of life forms—made the subtle transition from planet to star.