Frank McKenna sat in his kitchen and watched the moths pile up against the window.
They had been coming for three weeks. Every evening at dusk, they arrived in their millions, falling from the Pennsylvania sky like grey snow, covering the lawn and the driveway and the rusted pickup truck in the yard with a thick carpet of dead wings and dust. Frank had swept them off the porch every morning for three weeks, and every morning they were back. He poured himself a glass of...
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