It was late in the fall, probably early November I think, when Missy finally gained the courage – or had tired of our chastising – enough to touch the mat for herself.  The first frost had set in the previous night, so all day we’d pretended to breathe out smoke, sometimes using small sticks as cigarettes.   We tried to puff out rings, though it seems all we could make were whisps that trailed slowly from our mouths.  At Tiffany’s house, acorns covered the ground, enough to crunch beneath each step, the type good for sling shots.  It was the year’s twilight, the time right before winter, before the trees have fully shed their leaves, revealing small areas of bare ground – naked patches that resonate that mixed scent of cold and warmth.  All around us hung a slight dampness, the decay of the surrounding woods past year’s foliage hanging somewhere in between the shades of grey, white, and brown – brown and weathered like Lucas’ welcome mat. 

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