She typed in “park,” and drove to the nearest one, Seneca Creek. She drove past the trees that lined the long road into the park. A sign was up, but its lights were off. She could just make out the shape of the words: WINTER LIGHTS. The moon was out and surprisingly bright.

She didn’t see anyone, but that didn’t mean there weren’t people here. Kids having a few beers, lovers in the woods. If someone saw her, they might report her as doing something suspicious. She drove slowly, watching for signs of life.

The displays were still up from the holidays but they weren’t lit anymore. A teddy bear. A doll. A train. She imagined the signs all lit, all the beautiful colors, a wonderland of lights reflected in what was left of the snow.

She got out of the car at the playground. The swings cast long shadows in the moonlight. She sat on one, overlooking the lake down the hill. A lake, here, in the middle of nowhere. The reflection of the moon and the clouds played on the water’s surface. She backed up on the swing and pumped her legs, like a kid. It was strange to be at a park at night. Cold and strange. She felt oddly awake. As though she’d been asleep for years.

The White Elephant, she thought, out of the blue. She could take the films to the new house and burn them out back. Silly of her to drive all this way when the answer was two houses away.

By the time she got back in the car, it was nearly ten o’clock. Had Nick and the kids wondered where she’d gone? Probably not. She rolled down the windows on the highway. “I’m here!” she shouted into the rushing air. She sped down the highway, hoping, in a way, to get caught, but no one seemed to notice she was doing eighty miles per hour. Ninety.

Before long she was back in Willard Park, bumping over the speed bumps. She parked in front of the White Elephant, and took a box of films to the backyard.

She held the lighter to the edge of a film, experimenting. The film curled and melted where the flame met the plastic. It smelled terrible. She hadn’t expected that. She tamped the melting film against the dirt. She would have to do it inside or someone would notice the stench. They might report it. She tried the kitchen doorknob. It turned. She was in luck.

She lugged the films down to the basement. It took several trips to get everything in from the car. It was hot work, tiring. When she was done she sat beside them in the dark, the moon making shadows of her and her art supplies. She’d get rid of it all and make a new start. She and Lindy both would. The two of them would start over, together. Maybe she’d take her away for a mother-daughter weekend, something to recharge their batteries, a spa or the beach. She opened the windows before she opened the turpentine. She’d always hated the smell of turpentine, but it smelled like real art and she liked that about it. She opened the canister and doused the cardboard, breathing through her mouth, then she lit the lighter and set it to the edge of a film.