The last apparition of Halley's Comet was in 1986, approaching Earth as close as 0.4 astronomical units. Halley takes a long journey to visit us. The comet follows an elliptical orbit that reaches as far as Pluto before returning to the inner solar system. Its next flyby will be 76 years later, in 2061. During its orbit, Halley leaves fragments of itself in its trail—stray rocks, dust, and sometimes ice, blown away by the solar winds, floating in clumps across space. Occasionally, the Earth passes through this debris, causing it to rocket toward the planet at high speeds, burning brightly as it disintegrates in the Earth's atmosphere. We call this event a meteor shower.

 

Phil was told he could catch the Orionid meteor shower tonight as long as he went far enough north. He and Helene were on Interstate 93, driving away from Boston and towards Mount Washington. They were deep into New Hampshire; on a single-lane carriage flanked by thick woods. The plan was to reach the campsite at eleven and stay up to wait for the meteor shower.

 

"Didn't you check the weather report? We're going to drive for hours to see some damn clouds," Helene picked at her nails, they were wine-red and chipping. "We should have stayed at home with Maria and the kids."

 

"It's already clearing up ahead, and besides, don't you like that we are having some alone time?"

 

She flicked another flake of polish into the air. "I've had enough time alone with you." They paused, routinely, "but it'll be nice if we see the shooting stars."

 

"Yes." But for the last time, shooting stars are a misnomer. 

 

He glanced over at her pale thighs, a map of varicose veins, barely illuminated by the light from the dashboard. Thighs that were once tan five summers ago, when they were vacationing in Spain. Thighs he barely dared to touch now. 

 

"I was thinking that we could even camp out to watch the sunrise."

 

"Mm-hmm."

 

A sharp thud cut through their conversation. The car screeched. Phil drove his foot down on the brakes, bracing himself against the seat. Helene lurched forward and jerked back; her silver hair now tangled in her face.

 

"Jesus. What was that?"

 

"I think I hit something."

 

Phil backed the car to the side of the road, and they stepped out.

 

Sitting in front of the high beams of his white SUV was a tiny, bloodied fawn.

 

"Oh my god." Helene gasped. "How did you not see her!?"

 

Phil crossed his arms, studying the lump of ochre that laid before him. It was about one and a half feet long, so probably 3 to 4 months old.

 

"I told you that you were speeding." Helene bent down to check on the fawn. "Oh god, I'm so sorry he hit you. Are you alive?"

 

"Well, I was speeding because you were getting sick, and I—"

 

"Holy shit! She's alive!" Helene sprung up. "We have to get her to a vet." She took off with a frenzied look in her eyes and opened the trunk of the car, rummaging and pulling out two large towels.

 

"Are you just going to watch me? Do something."

 

Phil obliged. He bent down and took a look at the poor thing. The fawn had these thick golden lashes, which lay heavy on its watery onyx eyes. It reflected the blinking hazard lights behind Phil, and he stared at his silhouette on its corneas. He felt bad, he really did. It wasn't clear where its limbs ended and where the road started. Everything was a bloodied, mangled mess. The scarlet pools of blood, which were spreading by the second, crept towards his trainers. Phil looked up at his wife. She had laid out a towel on the road and was now using the other towel to gently pick up the fawn. The fawn must have only been around 50 pounds, but she was struggling because its limbs were almost melded to the road. It seemed the heat from the tires had cauterized some of the wounds, which would explain why it hadn't already bled to death. Another thing he kept to himself. He watched his wife and realized she was crying. She held no particular expression, but her face was wet. Her eyes were bright and glistening. He looked back at the fawn, then at the blood, and then at her again. They had been married for thirty years, but in that moment, Helene looked like the college girl he fell in love with. Tender and nurturing, like a mother.

 

Phil reached over to help her wipe up some of the blood, and they carried it back inside the car.

 

"Come on, have some of this lettuce."

 

Helene wriggled a limp piece of iceberg lettuce, from a pack of old gas station salad mix, at the wet snout of the fawn that stuck out from under the mound of fabric on her lap. It sniffed but did not move.

 

"We should turn back now," Helene cradled and gently stroked the little creature. "If we start driving now, we'd be back in Boston at a vet's in maybe an hour, and she wouldn't have to bleed out in the car that almost killed her."

 

Phil put the car out of park.

 

"Helene. It's midnight, there's no vet open. Either way, you understand that thing's not going to survive the night, right?" He stared at their family photo on the dashboard. "And if it did, what's going to happen to it? Live as a quadriplegic deer in some twisted animal sanctuary?"

 

Phil looked out at the sky and then at the fawn. It had closed its eyes. Helene continued to stroke it.

 

"I'm sorry. Let's go back home."

 

"Yes." She whispered. "Take us home." 

 

Phil reached for her, but his hand stopped just short of her face. He was staring past her, his gaze fixed on the empty night sky.

 

"Did you see that?"

 

Miles away, a thin streak of light flickered across the darkness, burning out before anyone had time to wish on it.

 

"See what?"

 

And in another two thousand orbits or fifteen hundred years, Halley's Comet will decay to be nothing more than a grain of sand. After one final collision with Earth, it will burn its last breath.