The girl stares out into the darkness, the soft light from the house etching her tiny shadowy form on the grass.

“What is it, sweetie?” The mother asks as her eyes remain fixed on the magazine draped across her laps.

“Do angels exist, Momma?” She turns her round face to the woman sitting in a chair on their porch.

The spring air is filled with the chorus of crickets and peepers.

“Of course they do!” The woman replies as she flips a page. “Why?”

“Then they’ve come to take Bilbo home.” The girl says.

“W-what?” The mother looks to her five-year old daughter who is pointing to something.

She turns to the field beside their home, to the spot where they had buried their pet dog earlier that day.

Her eyes widen as her mouth drops.

Hovering above the grave are dozens of glittering fireflies.

She watches as they drift…