Shady Heights, as he soon found out where he was called, was a gated-community. Watchmen made rounds every few blocks or so; and patrol cars cruised down the lane, sometimes towards him; and each time Satou when he would see them he would flinch, take detours and knowing why he acted in such furtive ways made him feel like a common crook.

Still, he could not evade them all, not always, not without making himself look guilty, and once a patrolman drew his cruiser up next to him, and asked him why a woman like her was doing out so late at night all by herself. Satou could only eke out a vague excuse, but ‘I was just on my way back, officer’ was good enough. He was told to be careful, and let go.

Once he was out the great gates, his shoulders sagged in ease. He let out a sigh.

Uptown, the watchful eyes lessened. Pedestrians began to reappear, but were still few and far between, and always on the other side of the road from him. Swift glances at each other’s passing figures were mutually exchanged, but beckoning them from so far to ask them for directions was too awkward to even attempt. Still, he tried, once, and when he was duly ignored, he couldn’t bring himself to try it again.

In a dark and inconspicuous corner, far from any overhanging windows, Satou fished out what amounted to a little over five-thousand ducats from the billfold he had stolen. Converted to riyals, he wasn’t sure how much it amounted to; but given the prices he had seen at the bakery, five-thousand was neither a sum large nor small.

A part of him had hoped for a better haul, and here he had not struck gold; but he wasn’t surprised. The billfold was worn, rugged, made out of cheap-leather or perhaps fake. It did not look like something someone wealthy would carry; and the fact that he had found it in a dark stairwell meant only for the staff to use further convinced him of this, and, at the same time, all this in truth, damned him of a graver crime.

Five thousand ducats was not a sum someone who earned his living on a day-to-day basis could afford to lose. It could’ve been all someone had, given, that not everyone in a post-industrial society likely had a bank account, insurance, savings, or a safe place to hide all their money. Locked drawers were easy to get into, and inbetween piles of clothes in cabinets an obvious place to stash your safekeeping. Sometimes, the safest place was yourself.

So had he pilfered the rich, or robbed from the poor? What an irrelevant question to ask. Irrespective of how much harm he had caused, it was him taking the easy way out that made him feel—regret? For why had he stolen when he had no need to? When he could’ve done what he had planned on doing, which had a promising chance to succeed? He regretted stealing the billfold. But it wasn’t too late to set things right either. He could still go back, return the billfold where he had found it, and—No. Just the thought of it was enough to utterly demoralize him.

“I’ll pay it back, I…”

What was he muttering about? What a bold-faced lie. He knew he wasn’t going to pay it back. He just didn’t want to go back there. Anything but to do it all over again, especially when he had made some ground. And since he was already far from the scene of his crime, his answer wasn’t one too hard to give into. He would not go.

The five-thousand ducats straight went into his wallet, neatly partitioned and now bulging his back-pocket; and the billfold he rubbed against his coat to remove any evidence of fingerprints, because even though he wore gloves, he wasn’t taking any chances. Then he threw it deep in an ashcan and stepped back into the light, and that, not for too long.

All the lights in the street went out right as he crossed the road. A city-wide blackout, from the looks of it, but all for the better. In the dark was security, and once the moonlight settled, he saw just fine.

A familiar rhythm grew far-off in the distance.

When he turned around, a tramcar was making a gradual bend at a T-point. Soon it passed him—three people inside getting ready to leave—heading towards a streetside stop where two women readied their belongings up on their shoulders to enter. Once the tram reached its stop, the tram conductor told them it was the ‘last one for the day’.

Three climbed in. Three climbed out.

The two women took the nearest vacant seats: the front. Satou sat all the way at the back, far from the few commuters who were there so late right by the window where he felt most at home. He carried no expectations as to where he might end up, nor did he care. He knew trams ran on a circuit; and secured in the knowledge that he could not get any more lost than he already was, rather than aimlessly wandering, this way, at least he could find a hotel if it chanced past him.

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Once the tram got moving again, the toll-collector got up to start taking fares, who wore a deep-blue livery, and clanking against his belt was a ticket-punch machine, which, to Satou, with its telephone dials, toggle switches, and a tiny valve on its side, looked out of place to be in a tram.

Once the toll-collector neared, “How much does a ticket cost?” Satou asked.

“Late tickets are a hundred, miss.”

“And, day tickets?”

“Seventy, miss.”

Satou handed a hundred for the fare, and here something happened that could’ve been easily avoided. Because he wore gloves, he had no sense of texture, and did not realize until he had handed it over just how sharp, fresh, and not worn and crumbled his note had been. Neither did the toll-collector it seemed, who too wore gloves, but more so was so used to his daily routine that, when he saw a hundred, he assumed ducats.

Still, Satou had caught it. It wasn’t too late to call out on it. The words hung on the tip of his tongue: ‘I gave you the wrong–’ but, once he waited for an opening, he never got to say it. The toll-collector operated his machine, produce a one-time ticket—a slip of paper quarter the size of his riyals—handed it to him, politely thanked him, and headed back to his seat.

“Excuse me,”

He didn’t hear him.

The tram went on as though nothing had happened. Satou stared at the toll-collector’s back. He stared at his navy-blue hat poking out of the front-seat, restless and indecisive, and for the hundred and fiftieth time thought about how he would go up to him and tell him what had happened. But the more he waited, the less temerity he seem to have summon.

Only later, once the tram neared its first stop, did it occur to Satou that perhaps this was karma, self-inflicted or not, that he deserved it for stealing that billfold. The thought afforded him some comfort, masochistic or otherwise, that—

“What the hell am I doing…”

Departing King’s Crossing, he had promised to himself that he would change. Then he had gone ahead and broken it in less than an hour, not once, not twice, but countless of times already. It was still his first day! What the hell was he doing?! No more. He had overestimated himself, but this idiocy could no longer go on. His sour mood made him recall all the things he had suffered through, because of his—idiocy. He remembered especially the moment when the officer asked him out for a night out, and that image afforded him the heat he needed to finally get the hell up.

Before he knew it himself, he was standing right beside the toll-collector. The tram slowed down at a stop. No one entered, no one left, no one said anything, and everyone patiently waited in an empty barren street for a young woman to get out and leave. Things could’ve gotten awkward if Satou had stayed quiet for a second longer, but:

“I gave you my riyals, sir.”

“Pardon, ma’am?”

“I might’ve given you my riyals, sir. On accident. I gave you a hundred riyals, for the fare. I found out just now. I thought I gave you a hundred ducats, but—I must’ve given you a hundred riyals, since I’m missing one, you see.”

“Ah! Right! I beg your pardon… Here you are—ma’am.”

“Thank you…”

Just like that, he had got it. Was that so hard?

Mishaps notwithstanding, the journey to who knew where turned out to be a peaceful one. No one talked, because nighttime had made everyone tired and unhumorous to do anything but doze off or try not to. The tramcar was spacious, with plenty of leg room, and it did not smell of paint or anything but the fresh air outside, except, oddly enough, like a bomb-shelter. When the fourth, fifth, or sixth, or who knew which stop came, the two women got up in unison.

Satou watched them leave with mild interest. Head propped up against his arm, he watched the two women talk on the sidewalk—something about a flooding somewhere—with a weary face, half-lidden eyes, when, just as the tram began to move again he realized, not too late, that if he didn’t get out as well, then he would be the only one left.

Here, he didn’t think. He ran for it.

He sprung up from his seat, and jumped out of a moving tram just as it began to pick up speed. Thud—

The toll-collector leaned his head out the front-door. When he saw Satou, with his satchel hanging halfway down his arm, legs spread apart to retain balance, looking back at him, the toll-collector laughed. He laughed, good-humoredly, but mutely, and waved his hat over his head. Farewell, it meant. His amusement was contagious, and Satou, embarrassed, unable to hide his own, awkwardly waved back as the tram, now empty, headed back for its terminus to conclude its day.

The two women meanwhile had disappeared before he could ask them for directions; but he no longer cared. That fleeting thought disappeared the moment he saw everywhere he looked, even himself, bathed in a luminous white-glow.

“…”

As the night had deepened, the city had at some point stopped growing darker. The culprit was glaringly obvious, and it was a feat in itself that he hadn’t noticed it until now—that white disc far off yet so near, ten times larger than the sun, halfway out the horizon—there she was, ancient and solemn: The moon of this world.