Realistic moon on a forearm

Ezra lit the gas lamps along Crookes Road in the year the fog came down so thick the trams ran on faith. He carried his pole on one shoulder and a tin of paraffin on the other, and his one rule was that the last lamp at the top of the hill stayed dark until the final tram had gone. One night a girl stood under that dead lamp with no coat, holding a map of a city that wasn't on any pavement he'd ever walked. She said she had lost her road home. The moon had snagged itself on the stack of the old gasworks like a kite in a hedge, and it was the only thing with light enough to read by.

So Ezra climbed the chimney. He went up the iron rungs with the pole across his back, hooked the moon by its rim, and brought it down slow, the way you'd lower a cake from a high shelf. It was warm as a loaf and heavier than it looked. The girl leaned over it and traced her route with one finger, and where she pressed hardest the silver went smoky and stayed that way. That dark patch you still see over the left side of it is her thumb. The little crater the size of a farthing is where she tapped her chin.

She gave it back once she'd found her road, and Ezra hung it over the gasworks again, not quite straight. That's why it sits brown-grey now, and why the old men on this hill say you can read a lass's whole worried afternoon in its seas. Right, who's got a penny for the lamp?