When the Shadows Climbed Out

At noon, when every shadow lay shortest, Celia began the weekly collection. She pressed a silver frame over each doorstep, lifted one cool black square, and stacked it in her cart. By sunset, the squares would line the town reservoir and keep the drinking water cold. At number eighteen, the frame came up empty. Mrs. Vale stood behind her three children, all barefoot in the blazing hall. “We paid last week,” she said. Celia checked the ledger. They had paid twice. A shout rose from the street. The shadows in Celia’s cart were climbing out.