The first frog woke him just after midnight.

A single croak, sharp and wet, right outside the bedroom window. It came once, then again, slow enough that he thought it might stop on its own.

He lay there, listening. Frogs were just part of the night, something you stopped noticing after a while. He rolled onto his side and closed his eyes.

The house was small, rented, meant to be left behind. That was fine by Wade Harlan. He’d been out a few months and didn’t trust anything that felt like it might last. A Bible sat on the nightstand, spine worn soft. He read a little each night, not for forgiveness. Just to quiet his mind.

He didn’t dream about prison anymore.

He still remembered the man whose life he took.

The next night, there were three.

He noticed them as soon as he stepped onto the porch—one near the bottom step, two spaced out in the yard. Their croaks overlapped, uneven, stepping on each other just enough to make it hard to find a quiet place to stand.

When he shifted his weight, they didn’t hop away. They turned to face him, dark eyes catching what little light the porch threw.

One croaker’s a blessing. More’n one means trouble’s brewing.

Wade snorted and shook his head. “Just frogs,” he said, louder than he needed to.

Inside, he bowed his head and prayed anyway. Same words as always. Words he’d learned to lean on when his thoughts wouldn’t settle. He had done his time. He had changed. His troubled past was behind him.

The night after that, there were six.

The croaking didn’t stop. No pauses. No gaps. Just sound piling up in the dark, pressing against the house. He stood on the porch longer than he meant to, waiting for a silence that never came.

He stepped down into the yard. At first, nothing seemed different. The frogs stayed scattered through the grass. Then he took another step.

One shifted.

Wade slowed, watching, and felt the lie of coincidence fall apart.

He tried circling them, careful at first, then quicker. It didn’t matter. Wherever he went, they kept him in view, eyes fixed, unblinking.

The noise pressed in. Not sharp, not painful. Just constant, crowding out his thoughts.

He went back inside. Shut the windows. Locked the door. Sat on the edge of the bed, head bowed, trying to pray. The words wouldn’t come. Every croak cut through the next thought before it could settle.

He gave up. Lay back. Stared at the ceiling while the sound pushed through the walls.

By the next night, the yard was full.

Frogs covered the grass. Crowded the porch rail. Clung to the low branches. Some lost their grip and dropped with soft, wet thuds that made Wade flinch.

Then the croaking changed.

It rose and fell in unison, every sound landing at once. Not a song. Not chaos. Just order.

Wade stepped onto the porch and stopped. Nowhere left to move without stepping on them. The sound swelled and pulled back in unison, filling his chest, vibrating through the boards under his boots.

This wasn’t a warning.

It was a reckoning.

He thought about forgiveness. Thought about redemption. Wondered if he’d ever confused the two because it made living easier.

He stayed where he was. For the first time since he’d gotten out, he understood there was nowhere left to run.

Headlights washed across the yard.

The frogs surged louder as a car rolled to a stop at the edge of the grass. The beams cut low and wide, catching slick bodies and shining eyes.

The engine idled. Then shut off.

A door opened. Closed.

The man who stepped out didn’t rush. He watched his footing, careful not to step on any of them, moving with the patience of someone who had made up his mind long before arriving.

Wade knew him immediately.

Not from the face. From the way he stood. From a memory that never softened.

The boy from the courtroom was a man now. Broader in the shoulders. Older in the eyes. The same look Wade remembered from the day a judge spoke words that changed nothing.

The croaking swelled again as the man walked forward, louder than it had been all night.

He stopped a few yards away. He didn’t shout. Didn’t say Wade’s name. He just stood there, hands loose at his sides, breathing steady.

Wade didn’t move. He didn’t need to.

Standing there, with the noise pressing in on him from all sides, he understood what he’d been getting wrong.

He’d thought the frogs meant forgiveness. A sign he’d done enough, paid enough, suffered enough to be left alone.

They hadn’t come for that.

They were there because of what he’d done. Because of a life taken and never given back. Wade saw it clearly now. Nothing had been forgiven. Nothing had been erased.

The man across from him shifted his weight, and Wade noticed the shape in his hand then, dark and solid against the headlights.

Wade felt no urge to run. No need to speak.

This wasn’t mercy. Wasn’t punishment. Just what was left.

He drew a slow breath. Stayed where he was.

The man raised the gun.

The frogs croaked once.

Every one of them at once. A single sound pulled tight across the yard.

The shot split the night.

Silence followed.

No frogs. No insects. No wind. Just empty air where sound used to be.

The man stood there a moment longer, then turned and walked back to his car. He sat behind the wheel, unmoving, hands resting, breathing slowly.

After a while, he reached out. Turned on the radio.

“…you’re listening to WHTN, Haint County,” a man’s voice said as the last notes faded. Calm. Unhurried.

“This is The Nightowl, keeping you company through the late hours. That was Epic Death with Karma Is a Bitch.”

Here’s the truth: Karma isn’t a bitch, but she’s not a friend either. She is an ancient law that doesn’t care if you’re rich, or if you pray, or if you tell yourself you meant well. She’s not a person, not a judge. She’s the rule of equality that does her work, quiet and patient. While people talk themselves in circles, she is a silent reckoning. She is justice in its purest form.

We like to pretend karma’s got a soft spot for us when we think we are righteous. We assume that if our actions are in the name of what we believe is true, she’ll do right by us. But she doesn’t play favorites. When the reckoning comes, intentions don’t matter. Only actions get weighed. What’s true stays. What’s false gets stripped down and fed back to the void, to be recycled.

We call it justice, so it sounds like someone’s in charge. We call it fate when we’re scared to admit we may have had a hand in it. But it’s just the universe righting itself, slow and steady. You don’t escape it. You dwell inside it. Until that day she comes for that reckoning. No thunder. No warning. Just the quiet shift you can’t talk your way out of.

Y’all be good to each other out there.

Get home safe, and watch out for those croakers. Something in the holler’s got ’em stirred up tonight.

We’ll talk again tomorrow.

The car pulled away, taillights shrinking down the road.

T.C. 12.18.25