A family appears on a road at night, all wearing summer
    pastels.
I've pulled into the driveway of the rented house and can't see
their faces. For an instant, I think of The Night of the Living
   Dead —
respectable husbands and wives, sisters and brothers
rudely interrupted from their long repose, forced to lurch down
country lanes and sidewalks in search of living flesh. This
   family
does not lurch but moves as if under sea in flip-flops that slap
   the tar
rhythmically like water smacking itself. A blue astral light blinks
in the ear of the teenage boy. When they murmur among
   themselves,
their perfect incisors gleam, biting through the dark
   like the moon's mouth above their shoulders.