Phoebe glanced from her to the tunnel ahead of them. It was still full daylight, but her sight could not penetrate the shadows within. She had expected more overgrowth—vines snaking up from the sides of the tunnel’s arch, weeds bursting from cracks in the crumbling concrete of the road that once led into the tunnel. She had expected rotting wooden boards blocking the tunnel.
It was a time when dragonflies could flutter all the way up to the moon, when the flickering of a hummingbird’s wings was faster than lightning.
It was a time when the growl of thunder signified the coming of a catastrophe, a cracking of the earth, a roiling of the seas, a shuddering of the heavens.
It was a wild time.
And into this time was born a creature that her mother called Mora.