In Boston, Sophie holds the cereal box up to her face. It’s a little past 2:30, the world not quite dim but strange, as if someone has turned down the contrast on a screen, the shadows an eerie gray-green, the color of thunderstorms and new bruises. When I put the box to my eye, I see it, the shadow not quite dime-sized and gibbous, the thing as if bitten by an unknown mouth. We are not in the path of totality; within another hour, the flesh is healed. But all day I think of that little black spot floating at the bottom of the cereal box like a prize. 2024 I want to be in the path. I want to stand in the sudden dark and then be there when the light comes back and burns even brighter than I remembered.