Leif was an ordinary boy who could never fall asleep once the rest of his house had gone quiet.

Every night he sat by his window in his striped pajamas, counting the cracks in the ceiling and waiting for a drowsiness that never came.

The only thing that kept him company was the Moon, round and patient above the rooftops, and he liked to imagine that someone up there was awake too.

But on this particular night the Moon looked wrong, thin and grey, as if a lamp were running low on oil. Its light flickered once, then dimmed, and the whole street below sank into a deeper, colder dark. Leif pressed his hand to the cold glass and whispered, "Don't go out. Not you too."