The storm hit Juniper Street a little after eight, fast and loud, the kind of summer storm that turns the sky green and sends patio chairs skittering across lawns. At 8:41, a transformer at the end of the block let out a sharp blue flash, and every house went dark at once.
For a while, nobody did anything. People stood at their windows holding phones up like flashlights, waiting for the lights to blink back on. They did not. The utility company's website, for those who could still load it, estimated restoration sometime the next afternoon.
The rain stopped around nine, leaving the air cool and the street shining under a sky that, for the first time in years, actually showed stars.
Mr. Petrakis at number twelve was the first to come outside. He had a freezer full of food that was going to spoil, he explained to no one in particular, and a charcoal grill that did not need electricity. He lit it on his driveway and started cooking.
The smell did the rest.
The Nguyen kids came out first, then their parents, carrying a cooler of drinks that were not going to stay cold anyway. The young couple from number seven, who had lived on the street for a year and spoken to almost no one, brought a camping lantern and a bag of marshmallows. Mrs. Abernathy, who was eighty and mostly known for complaining about leaves, brought out a folding table and, unexpectedly, a guitar.
By ten o'clock, there were twenty people on the Petrakis driveway. Someone dragged out lawn chairs. Someone else brought a box of candles. The teenagers, cut off from their phones, organized a game of flashlight tag that turned the whole street into a playground.
People talked. Really talked. The Nguyens learned that the quiet couple at number seven were nurses who worked opposite night shifts and almost never saw each other awake. Mr. Petrakis told stories about the island where he grew up. Mrs. Abernathy, it turned out, had played in a band in the sixties and still knew every word to every song anyone could name.
At some point, a little after midnight, the lights came back on. All at once, porch lights and televisions and air conditioners hummed to life up and down the street.
There was a pause. Somebody laughed. Then, without anyone saying anything, the young couple from number seven reached over and switched their lantern back on, and Mrs. Abernathy started another song.
They stayed out until almost two.
The next week, a flyer appeared on every door on Juniper Street. Block party, it said. Last Saturday of the month. Bring a dish. No power outage required.
This story is a work of fiction. Names, characters, and events are products of imagination.
