Old Ma Meg leaned on her hoe, swept damp hair from her eyes, and stared up, straight at the sun. Miserly it was, these days. Barely made her eyes water. Barely touched her little garden. She shook her head and got back to hoeing. That dull red light might be enough, might not. She would find out, was all.
The wind picked up, and a fine gray ash sifted down from the sky. Months, and still it came.