Why do they call them shooting stars, mama? She stares out her backseat window. Why do people say they're lucky? Because they are rare. Bits of dust and rock enter the earth's atmosphere all the time. They burn up. Sometimes, they are large enough for us to see. But it has to be night. And you have to be looking up.
I glance in my rear view mirror. Her upturned face glows in the moonlight. The ground rushes beneath us and the heavens are fixed in place.