The hissing sound continued; there was no place to get away from it. Their pain came at random, for no reason they could discern, and they clung together in their confusion.

“Hold still,” a voice said, and they trembled with fear, for they knew the terrifying voice well. Frozen like a frightened animal, trying to hide but completely exposed; inner, bloody screams silent to the world. The shadow blotted out the light from above. “Keep wiggling, and I will keep taking the parts of you that wiggle,” the voice growled. The hissing grew louder, and with a sudden snap, and a flash of shocking pain, the shadow withdrew, holding something in his hands. “I’ll be back soon.”

*  *  *

“I was gone for less than an hour,” John said in a low voice, leaning in so Jessica could hear him over the sound of the hospital waiting room’s TV. “I came back, and he was lying there. If I had just stayed with him a little longer …” He trailed off, and Jessica gave him a sympathetic look. He grabbed his backpack off the floor and put it in his lap, touching the front pocket to reassure himself that Theodore’s head was still where he’d stuffed it.

“Do you think it was just someone with a grudge?” she asked, then flushed. “I don’t mean ‘just,’ like it’s not a big deal, but I mean, I’m sure Clay made his fair share of enemies, being the police chief. It probably didn’t have anything to do with …” She glanced around and lowered her voice. “Anything to do with us.”

John looked down at the backpack in his lap. “The door … was shredded, Jess.”

Jessica looked nervously down the hallway, like she was worried Clay might hear them. “Well, regardless, it’s not your fault.”

A heavy silence settled in between them, only punctuated by the half-crazed voices coming from the TV, which was showing a montage of ghastly faced clowns. For a moment, John was distracted, searching for a glimpse of the apparition who had silently passed him in the street, but she was not among the crowd.

“People are going crazy this weekend,” Jessica said, recalling his attention. “Dressing up in those costumes—did you hear about the kid who got kidnapped?”

“Yeah,” John said. “Clay told me about it. Actually, when I went to see him—” John broke off as a nurse in blue scrubs walked up purposefully.

“John, Jessica?” she said as if she already knew the answer.

“Yeah, that’s us,” Jessica said, with a hint of anxiety.

The nurse gave her a smile. “Chief Burke wants to see you. I tried to tell him visits are supposed to be immediate family only right now, but, well. Chief’s orders.”

The room was only a few doors down the hallway, but the bright lights and slick, grayish surfaces were disorienting. John squinted to ward off the offensive glare. Jessica was in front of him, and he bumped into her before he realized she had stopped just short of Clay’s door.

“What’s the matter?” he asked, confused as to why she was standing still.

She turned around and moved close to whisper: “Can you go in first?”

“Yeah, of course,” he said, understanding. “He’s not that bad, Jess, I promise.”

“Still.” She made a concerned face and stepped back so John could approach the doorway.

The door was open: He could see Clay, apparently asleep. He was in a hospital gown, and with the blood cleaned from his face, his skin looked sallow. A line of black stitches ran from his forehead to his cheekbone, splitting his eyebrow.

“He almost lost that eye.”

Jessica jumped. The nurse had apparently followed them.

“He looks pretty out of it,” John said quietly. “Are you sure he wanted to talk to us?”

“He’s drifting in and out,” the nurse replied in a normal tone of voice. “Go ahead, it won’t hurt him to talk for a bit.”

“Hey, Clay,” John said awkwardly as he approached the bed. “Carlton and Marla are on their way. They should be here soon.” Jessica looked sideways at the elderly woman asleep in the other bed, and the nurse stepped past her, closing the curtain between the two patients.

“Privacy, if you can call it that,” the nurse said drily, and then left, closing the door partway behind her.

As soon as she was out of the room, Clay’s eyes opened. “Good,” he said. His voice was reedy, and he didn’t lift his head from the pillow, but his eyes were sharp. “Don’t pull any plugs just yet, I’m still here,” Clay said lightly, and John gave him a wry smile.

“Okay, not yet,” he agreed.

“How are you feeling?” Jessica asked.

“Get my jacket,” Clay said, pointing to the enclosure’s only chair, where a dark gray sport coat was draped over the back. Jessica hurried to get it, and Clay fumbled around with it for a minute, finally extracting a long white envelope from the inside breast pocket. He held it out to John, sitting up slightly; John took it and Clay fell back on the pillow, breathing heavily.

“Take it easy,” John said, alarmed.

Clay nodded weakly, his eyes closed. “It has to have a range,” he mumbled.

“What?” Jessica leaned in beside John, and they exchanged a worried look.

“It has to have a maximum range.” Clay’s head lolled to the side and his breath slowed: he seemed to be drifting out of consciousness again.

“Should we get the nurse?” Jessica looked to John, who peered at the monitor, then shook his head.

“His vitals look okay.”

“You’re not a doctor, John!”

“Shut the door a little more?” John said, ignoring her. Jessica did as he asked begrudgingly, leaving it a few inches ajar. John turned the envelope over: It was unaddressed, sealed, and heavy. He opened it, and something small fell out: Jessica moved to grab it, and John took out the rest of the contents: It was a stack of photographs, about an inch thick. The top one was of him and Charlie in the restaurant only the night before. It seemed to have been shot from outside the building, through the front window. John continued to browse the photos: Each one tracked through his evening with Charlie until they had parted ways: eating, coming out of the restaurant, and saying good-bye, the pictures all taken from a distance. In some the image was askew, or the figures blurry—the photographer had not been interested in composition. There was a last shot in the sequence: Charlie walking away toward the crowd by the new pizzeria; John could make out the back of his own head in the bottom corner of the photo. He quickly put it behind the others and kept looking. The next sequence showed Jessica and Charlie in a clothing store, coming in and out of a dressing room in various outfits, talking and laughing. The pictures seemed to have been taken from the other side of the store—the edges of some were obscured by fabric, as if someone had been hiding behind a rack of clothes.

John felt a stab of angry revulsion. The restaurant pictures were bad enough, but this seemed far more intrusive, an invasion of an intimate moment. He glanced at Jessica; she had moved to the window, holding something up to the light, and after a moment John realized that it was a strip of film. He squinted over her shoulder, and she lowered it, turning to face him.

“All the pictures on this are of us,” she said quietly.

He held up the stack of pictures. “These, too.”

Jessica held out a hand silently: He passed her half the stack and they each sorted through their share. The photos covered several more moments in time: there was a set of Jessica and Carlton meeting Charlie at a café; John showed one to Jessica and she nodded. “That’s when Charlie first got back,” she said. Her brow furrowed, and she held up a shot of her, Charlie, and Marla coming out of a building. “This is my apartment complex,” she said, her voice tense. “John, this looks like somebody hired a P.I. to follow all of us around. How did he get these? And why?”

“I don’t know,” John said slowly, looking back down at the photo in his hands, the last in the stack. The picture had been taken at night, outside, but the figures were clear: He himself was facing the camera, his hands shoved into his pockets. The despair on his face visible even at a distance. Charlie had her back to the camera; she was hugging herself so tightly that he could see her fingers gripping the back of her dress, a contorted, useless comfort. Charlie. His head was too tight, his chest ached. John reflexively bent the photo and put it in his pocket, then turned his head to make sure no one had noticed. Jessica said nothing.

John cleared his throat. “The reason I went to see Clay was that I wanted to show him something.”

“What is it?” Jessica stepped closer. John went to the door and peered out, then snuck a glance behind the curtain at the elderly woman. She was still asleep. He took off his backpack and got Theodore out. Jessica yelped, then slapped a hand over her mouth. “Where did you get him?” she demanded. John took a step back, startled by her sudden, searing scrutiny.

“What’s wrong with you?” he asked.

“It’s weird. I always hated that thing.” Jessica fluttered her hand by her face. “Charlie’s robotics experiments always creeped me out, but it’s kind of nice to see it.”

“Well, this one has an interesting secret.”

“Don’t let Charlie see it; she’s been throwing away things like that, anything from her dad. It’s probably some kind of five-step grief-acceptance thing, but still.”

“No, I’m not going to show her this. This is going to sound crazy, but Theodore’s been … talking to me, and yesterday—” He didn’t have to continue. A garbled, static-filled noise retched from the rabbit’s head, and Jessica winced. Before she could say anything, the sound changed.

Now that he knew the words, they were perfectly clear; Jessica tilted her head to the side, listening intently. “Is he saying, ‘Silver Reef’?” she asked.

“Shining Star. Shining Star, Silver Reef.” Theodore was still repeating the phrase, but John shoved him back into his backpack and covered him with a mostly clean T-shirt, muffling the sound. Remembering the pictures, he bundled them back into the envelope and added them to the bag before zipping it back up. “You got it quicker than I did,” he told Jessica. She nodded absently, a faraway look in her eye.

“Silver Reef,” she repeated.

“Does it mean anything to you?” he asked with a spark of hope.

“It’s a town near Hurricane,” she said.

“Maybe Charlie’s family used to live there?” John said. Jessica shook her head.

“No. It’s a ghost town. Nobody lives there.”

“Jessica! John!” Marla’s voice pierced the quiet, and they turned to see Carlton beside her, his face pale and tense. He brushed past the others and went straight to the bed.

“Dad, are you okay?” He hovered beside Clay, reaching out to touch his hand, then pulling away. “Is he okay?” he glanced back at the others, and Marla hurried forward, examining the monitors.

“He’s okay, Carlton,” Marla said, putting a hand on his shoulder, and he nodded sharply, not taking his eyes off Clay’s still face.

“He’ll be fine,” John said, trying to sound confident. “He was just awake, talking. The nurse said he’s going to be okay.”

“What happened?” Carlton asked quietly, and John shook his head.

“I don’t know,” he said helplessly. “I got there too late.” Carlton didn’t answer, but pulled a chair up beside the bed and sat down. He rested his chin on his fist, hunching over.

“It’ll be okay,” Marla repeated, then glanced around the room with a puzzled expression. “Where did she go?”

“Who’s with you?” Jessica asked alarmingly, looking to John. John was looking at the door: Charlie had stopped just outside the room.

“Charlie. Hey, come in,” he spoke loudly, wondering with guilt if she had heard any of the conversation that had taken place. She stepped into the room, but hung back. John glanced at his backpack, on the floor at the foot of Clay’s bed. The noise seemed to have stopped, to his relief. When he looked up, Charlie gave him an embarrassed half smile.

“I don’t like hospitals very much,” she said softly. “Is he okay?” She didn’t turn her head, and John realized that she was deliberately staying where she couldn’t see Clay.

“He’s going to be,” he said. “He’s doing okay.” She nodded, but stayed where she was, looking unconvinced.

“He’s lucky you were there!” Marla exclaimed. “John, you must have saved his life.”

“Um, maybe,” he said. “I don’t know.” He squeezed her hand, then let go of it. He turned back to Charlie; she gave him a small, tight smile, her arms folded. The nurse came in, and Marla intercepted her, pulling her aside for an update on his condition and Jessica took the opportunity to lean in. “John, I’m going to leave. I’ve got classes this afternoon. Pick me up at seven, don’t be late.”

“Right,” John whispered. Jessica made her way past everyone and through the door. Charlie watched her until she was out of sight, then she looked at John again, making eye contact for only a moment before turning her attention back to the nurse. John glanced around the room: with Jessica gone, he felt suddenly untethered, less at ease among these people than he already had been. Without another word, he slipped out the door, ignoring the soft sound of Marla calling his name.

He was only a few feet down the hall when Jessica caught his arm. “John!”

“Hey!” he protested, then saw there was someone next to her, a slight, blonde woman who looked like she had been crying, her red eyes the only color in her washed-out face. “What’s wrong?” he asked warily.

“This is Anna,” Jessica said. “Clay … Chief Burke was—is—helping her to …” She cleared her throat. “Her son is missing. Chief Burke was helping.”

“Oh,” John said awkwardly. “I’m so sorry, ma’am.” Anna blew her nose into a crumpled tissue.

“I was just at the station and I overheard … they said Chief Burke was here, and I just needed to know he’s okay. Is he okay?” she asked anxiously.

“He’s going to be fine,” Jessica said, and Anna nodded, not seeming convinced.

“When I went to report that Jacob … was missing, the desk sergeant had me fill out paperwork, he asked me about my ex-husband and said he had probably taken Jacob. I told him, that man would never take Jacob, he wouldn’t know what to do with him!”

“Okay,” John said, shifting uncomfortably. “We don’t work for the police department—”

“I know that,” she said quickly, shaking her head. “I’m sorry, I can’t think straight, it’s just I overheard the nurse in the waiting room talking to you before. Chief Burke was there when the sergeant was telling me to call my ex-husband; he took me aside and asked me questions, he said he was going to find my son, and I believed him.”

“He’s a good officer,” Jessica said softly. “He’s a good person. He’ll find your son.” Anna pressed her hand to her mouth, stifling a sob as she began to cry again.

“Is he really going to be all right? I heard …” She broke off, and John put a hand on her shoulder.

“He’s going to be all right,” he said firmly. “We just saw him; he talked to us.” Anna nodded, but didn’t look convinced. Jessica gave John a helpless glance. He racked his brain for something to say. “He will find—Jacob, was it?” he asked, and Anna nodded tearfully.

“Anna!” An older woman rounded the corner briskly, and Anna turned at the sound of her name.

“Mom,” she said, the strain in her voice easing slightly. Her mother wrapped her arms around her, and Anna held on tightly, crying into her shoulder.

“It’ll be all right,” Anna’s mother whispered. Thank you, she mouthed silently to John and Jessica, and they nodded, exchanged a glance, and headed for the hospital entrance.

As soon as they were in the parking lot, Jessica let out a gasp like she had been holding her breath, and hugged John fiercely. He put his arms around her, surprised. “It’ll be all right,” he said, and she pushed him away.

“Will it?” she asked, her eyes bright with tears. “It’s nice to tell that poor woman that Clay will find her son, but, John, you and I both know that when kids go missing in this town … they don’t get found.” John shook his head. He wanted to argue with her, but there was something leaden in the pit of his stomach.

“It doesn’t have to end like that this time,” he said without conviction, and Jessica straightened, wiping her eyes like it was a gesture of defiance.

“It can’t. It can’t end like that again, John. If that little boy is mixed up in all this, we have to find him and bring him home. For Michael.”

John nodded, and before she could answer, she strode to her car and drove away, leaving him alone in the parking lot.

*  *  *

That night, John had barely stopped in front of Jessica’s building when she came running out. She opened the car door and jumped in with lightning speed. “Go,” she said urgently, and he hit the gas.

“What’s wrong, what happened?” he asked.

“Just drive, hurry.”

“Okay, put on your seat belt!” he scolded as they veered around a corner.

“Sorry! Everything is fine,” she said. “I just don’t like thinking someone could be out there stalking me.”

“Yeah,” he agreed, peering into the rearview mirror. “But it’s dark out; we should be okay.”

“That doesn’t make me feel better.”

“So, what do you think?” John said after a moment. “Did you notice anything about the photos?”

“That they’re enough to get a restraining order in most states?” she joked, but there was real anxiety in her voice.

“None of them were of just one of us,” he said. “And none of them were just you and me, or just you and Marla.”

“You mean it’s about Charlie,” Jessica said, understanding immediately.

“Isn’t everything?” John said drily. The words sounded bitter, though he had not meant them to, and he glanced at Jessica, trying to gauge her reaction. She was staring out the window like she hadn’t heard him.

In less than half an hour, they were at the ghost town. John stopped the car beside a wooden sign reading WELCOME TO SILVER REEF, and got out; Jessica followed. It was an odd mix, even in the dark: in the distance they could see the crumbling walls of buildings that would never be restored, and close by were the places rebuilt for tourists: a church, a museum, and a few others John couldn’t make out.

“John, we’re going to get killed out here,” Jessica said, briefly losing her balance on the loose dirt and gravel.

“When exactly did people last live here?” John asked quietly.

“Late eighteen-hundreds I think. Silver mining town, hence the name.”

The town appeared even more abandoned than they were expecting, possibly closed to tourists for the season, but on distant hills there were scattered lights. John turned in a circle, wishing Theodore had been just a little more forthcoming. “What does ‘Shining Star’ mean, anyway?” he muttered to himself. He looked up: the night was clear, and the sky was awash in stars, with no city lights to drown them out.

“It’s beautiful,” Jessica murmured.

“Yeah, but not helpful,” John said, rubbing the back of his neck. He turned around again, and then he saw it. “Shining star,” he said.

“What?” Jessica turned, then squinted and tried to follow his eye line.

A few yards back the way they’d come was a wooden archway leading into a field; at the peak of the arch, was a single silver star.

The field was wide, sloping upward, and at the top of the hill, John could see the outline of a house. It was scarcely visible: had it not been for the guidance of Theodore’s mumbling head, it wouldn’t have stood out from anything else in the canopy of silhouettes. With wordless agreement, they passed under the star, leaving the remains of the town behind them. The black field soon consumed their line of sight in all directions, with only the faint discoloration of a winding gravel path to guide their steps.

As they made their way up the hill, a small, squarish one-story house came into view; there were windows on each outfacing wall, but only one was lit, in the back. They slowed their pace as they reached the front door: there was only one concrete step, unusually high and wide. John reached out a hand to help Jessica up. She didn’t really need it, being five times the athlete that he was, but it still seemed polite. The front door was unwelcoming, the little, lightless lamps almost hidden, offering no help. John looked around for a doorbell and couldn’t find one, so he knocked. There was no sound of movement from inside. Jessica leaned to the side, trying to see through the windows. John had raised his hand to try again when the door creaked open, and a tall, dark-haired woman peered out, staring at them coldly.

“Aunt Jen?” John asked meekly, stepping back instinctively before he could stop himself. He recognized her, but standing face-to-face, he felt almost as though they had come to this house at random. Jen tilted her head, her dark eyes fixing on him.

“I’m someone’s aunt Jen, yes,” she said drily. “But I don’t believe I’m yours.” She stayed where she was, one hand on the doorframe and the other on the knob; she was blocking the entry as if she thought they might try to force their way in.

“I’m a friend of Charlie’s,” John said, and a ghost of an expression flickered on her face.

“And?” she said.

“I’m John. This is Jessica,” he added, realizing she had not yet spoken. Jessica would usually have jumped in as the social director, but she was leaving this to him, looking back nervously as though she suspected someone was creeping through the dark. John glanced back at her, and she gave him a little, encouraging nod to go on. “I’m here because I got a message,” he said. She waited patiently, and John took off his backpack and took Theodore out; Jessica reached forward to take the empty bag, and he held the rabbit’s head up. Jen showed no surprise, only curling her lip slightly.

“Hello, Theodore,” she said calmly. “You’ve seen better days, haven’t you?”

John smiled reflexively, then hardened his features.

“Shining Star, Silver Reef,” John said, but Jen didn’t react. “I have to say, this is a strange place to call home,” he said, though what he wanted to say was, You owe us an explanation.

“A message.” She looked at Theodore’s head, then looked accusingly over her shoulder, though all that was visible behind her was a dark hallway.

“Did you want us to come here? I don’t understand,” John pressed.

“Why don’t you come inside,” Jen said, stepping back, then closing the door with haste as soon as they were inside. The house was spare: the furniture was dark and plain, and there was little of it. The walls were thick with layered wallpapers, rich with vintage designs from decades past, but there was nothing hanging on them, though John saw nail holes and marks where decorations had once been. Jen ushered them through a living room with only two chairs and an end table, into a small room almost entirely filled by a square, black-stained dinner table. There were four matching chairs, and Jen pulled out the one closest to the door, then sat down.

“Please,” she said, gesturing to the other chairs. John and Jessica made their way around the table to face her, as she stared into the middle distance.

“So, is this where Charlie grew up?” Jessica asked awkwardly as she sat down.

“No.”

“So, then you moved here recently?” John asked suspiciously, refusing to believe someone would select this house by choice.

“How is Charlie?” Jen said slowly. “Did she know about the message as well?” Jen made a discreet glance at the window behind them, then focused back on John.

“No,” John said plainly. Jen nodded; she was still staring into space, and he had a sudden but profound impression that there was something in the room that only she could see.

“We want to help Charlie. Is there anything going on that we need to know about?” Jessica asked, and Jen snapped to attention.

“Charlie is my concern. She’s my responsibility.” Jen spoke with an air of pure self-assurance, and something in it must have struck Jessica: she straightened, lifting her chin to match Jen’s posture.

“Charlie’s our friend, she’s our concern, too,” Jessica said.

There was silence, and John flicked his eyes back and forth between the two women, waiting. A long moment passed, the two of them staring at each other, immobile, and John realized he was holding his breath.

“Jen,” he said, plunging in. “A friend gave us pictures someone had been taking of Charlie, and of us.” He unzipped his backpack, and that noise snapped Jessica and Jen out of their staring contest. He pulled the pictures Clay had given them out of their envelope, leaving the film, and placed them in front of Jen on the table. “If you want to take responsibility for Charlie, look at these and tell me if they mean anything to you.”

She began going through the stack, peering intently at each photo, then putting each aside, making a second, neat pile of discards. “Why don’t you ask your detective friend what they mean?” she asked.

“Because last night our detective friend was nearly murdered,” John said. Jen didn’t respond, and continued her methodical progress through the pictures. When she had gone through all the pictures, she looked up at John. Her expression had softened slightly; the hostility had given way to something else, a discomfort, and fear.

“Is this all?” she asked. “Is there anything else?” She cleared her throat.

“He said something before he lost consciousness.”

“And what was that?”

John looked to Jessica briefly, then back to Jen. “‘It has to have a range. It has to have a maximum range.’” He looked at her expectantly, but she showed no sign of recognition.

“I don’t know what that means,” she said. She put her chin in her hand, staring down again at the first picture in the stack, then she shook her head. “I know you mean well.” She leaned back in the wooden chair, looking from John to Jessica and back again. “I should tell you to go away, to forget her. All these years …” She trailed off, then gave each of them a piercing look. “Secrets petrify you. You harden yourself against the world to keep them safe, and the longer you keep them, the harder you become. Then one day you look in the mirror, and you realize you’ve turned to stone.” She smiled sadly. “I’m sorry.”

“You’re not going to tell us anything? We’re here to help. We’re Charlie’s friends!” Jessica insisted.

“If I didn’t plan on telling you anything I wouldn’t have anything to be sorry about,” Jen said, her mouth almost forming a smile. John collected the photos to put back in his bag.

“If you have something to tell us—do it now, or we’re leaving. I may not know much, but I know that girl isn’t Charlie, or she is under some kind of influence.” He waited for a response, but none came. “She isn’t herself,” he added, sounding more desperate than before. Jen looked up at them: her rigid face had broken, tears were in her eyes.

A knock came from the front door, and even Jen startled. She looked to the door, then back to John and Jessica. Her face was grave. “That way,” she said in a voice barely above a whisper, pointing down a narrow hallway. “Close the door behind you.” The knock came again; John touched Jessica’s arm and nodded, and they got up from the table, careful not to let the chairs make noise as they dragged across the floor.

The hallway was dark, the only light coming from the room they had just left, and John kept a hand on the wall for balance. After a second his eyes adjusted, and he could see an open door at the end of the hall.

“John, come on,” Jessica whispered, grabbing his arm briefly as she brushed past him and hurried into the room.

“Yeah,” he said, and stopped moving as his fingers touched the frame of a door.

“John!” Jessica hissed. John tried the door. It opened easily; he peered in, and recoiled.

Someone’s in there!

“John!” Jessica whispered urgently as the knock at the door came again. John didn’t move.

It took only a second for him to register that the figure in the closet was not a person. It was about his height, with a roughly human shape, but it resembled nothing that had ever been alive. John stepped closer and took his keys from his pocket. He switched on the keyring penlight, and swept it up and down quickly. His heart stopped. It was a skeleton, metal and naked wires, encased in nothing. Its arms hung at its sides, and its head was bowed, exposing its open skull, the circuits silent and lightless. Its face was bare and metal.

“John!” Jessica was standing behind the door at the end of the hall, holding it open just a crack as she waited for him. John closed the closet door, blinded again in the darkness, and walked toward the sound of her voice like a beacon. His steps took ages, the air like molasses, as the thing in the closet echoed in his mind like a gunshot, drowning out everything else.

In a daze, John reached the end of the hall as Jessica beckoned frantically. She grabbed his arm and pulled him inside, carefully closing the door behind him.

“What’s wrong with you? John, what was in that closet?” she whispered, still holding on to his arm, her nails digging in, bringing him closer to reality.

“It was …” He swallowed. It was holding a knife. “It was the machine Charlie’s father built to kill himself,” he said hoarsely. Jessica’s eyes widened, and she stared at him like he was a ghost.

The knock came again, much louder, and they both jumped. This time they could hear Jen’s footsteps walking toward the sound. Jessica bent and pressed her ear to the keyhole. “Do you see anything?” John whispered. The front door creaked as it opened.

“Charlie,” John could hear Jen say. “What a nice surprise.” Jessica twisted around in her crouched posture.

“Charlie’s here?” she said, scarcely whispering, and John shrugged.

“Aunt Jen, it’s so wonderful to see you again,” Charlie’s voice came through faintly, but clear. Jessica stayed where she was, listening for more, but John was restless, and he looked around the room.

They were in a bedroom—at least, there was a bed—but it was mostly filled with cardboard boxes and old-fashioned wooden trunks. John stumbled around them for a moment, then froze, looking as though something had just occurred to him. He knelt quietly and opened one of the chests, moving slowly to make no sound.

“John, what are you doing?” Jessica whispered angrily.

“Something isn’t right here,” John breathed, glancing at the door. “Come on, this might be our only chance to find out what she’s up to.” John shuffled through some of the papers in the first chest, then closed the lid and flipped up the top of a nearby cardboard box: It was filled with computer parts and mechanisms he didn’t recognize. A second and third held massive tangles of electric cable. “This looks like stuff I’d expect to find in Charlie’s room,” he murmured to himself.

“Shhh!” Jessica hissed, pressing her ear back against the door to the hall.

“What’s going on out there?” John said under his breath. “I can barely hear anything.”

Jessica shook her head.

“Let me know if you hear someone coming.” John moved to a large green chest, the paint almost entirely worn off. There was no lock. John knelt beside it, found the handle, and heaved it open, then shuddered, falling back and pushing himself away.

“Jessica,” he gasped, moving back to the chest and leaning over it.

“Shhhh!” Jessica hissed from the door, listening intently.

“Jessica.”

“What, John? I’m trying to listen.”

“It’s … it’s Charlie,” he said hoarsely. “In the chest.”

“What?” Jessica whispered. She turned around in annoyance, her face falling. She dropped to her knees and crawled to the chest, where John had gone back to looking down at what lay inside. Charlie was curled up in the fetal position; she looked like she was sleeping, with a pillow under her head and blankets surrounding her. Her brown hair was a mess; her face was round; and she was wearing light gray sweatpants and a sweatshirt, both too large for her. John stared, his heart pounding so hard he could hear nothing but the rush of his own blood, not daring to hope, until: she took a breath, and then another. She’s alive. John reached down into the trunk and touched her cheek: it was too cool. His mind snapped out of its first shock. We have to get her out of here; she’s sick. He stood and reached awkwardly into the trunk, then gently, cautiously, lifted her out. He looked down at her in his arms, astonished, all his thoughts wordless, except, Charlie.

*  *  *

Don’t let me go—let go of me, what’s happening? Someone touched her cheek, a brief, startling spot of warmth. It was gone just as quickly, leaving her colder than before. Come back, she tried to say, but she could not remember how to make the words come out.

“Charlie.” That’s my name, someone is saying my name. Charlie tried to open her eyes. I know that voice. Someone’s arms reached down under her, lifting her from the cramped, dark place she’d been so long that memories of somewhere else seemed like dreams. She still couldn’t open her eyes. A woman said something. I know them. She couldn’t remember their names.

The first voice came again, it was a man’s voice, and she felt its reverberation as he pulled her against his chest, holding her like a child. Warmth radiated from him; he was solid and alive. Even standing still, he was filled with movement: She could hear his heartbeat, just beside her ear. I am alive. He said something else, and the rumble of it shook her whole body; the woman answered, and then she was jostled painfully. We’re going somewhere. She still couldn’t open her eyes.

“It’s gonna be okay, Charlie,” he whispered, and the sleeping world began to pull her down again. I want to stay! She began to panic, then as she slipped into unconsciousness again, she grabbed hold of the last words he’d said. It’s gonna be okay.

*  *  *

John clutched Charlie to his chest, then relaxed his grip anxiously, afraid of hurting her.

“How are we going to get her out?” Jessica whispered, and he glanced around the room. There was a window, but it was high and narrow: getting all three of them through it would take time.

“We’ll have to run for it,” he said in a low voice. “Wait until … she leaves.” Jessica met his eyes, her face written over with all the questions he had been asking himself for the last six months.

A scream ripped through the silence between them, and John came alert. Someone screamed again, and the room shuddered with impact from somewhere in the house. John looked around wildly for an escape, and his eyes lit on a closet door. “There,” he said, nodding toward it. Another bang came, and the wall beside them shook; another scream, and then a scrabbling sound, like an animal scratching at the door. “Hurry,” John whispered, but Jessica was already clearing a path. She moved ahead of him, moving aside boxes as quickly and soundlessly as she could, and he carried Charlie carefully behind, his whole being focused on holding her safe. Jessica shoved coats on hangers aside, making room, and they crammed themselves into the space.

“It’s gonna be okay, Charlie,” John whispered. Jessica closed the door behind them, then stopped, her hand on the knob.

“Wait,” she whispered.

“What?”

Jessica ran back across the room carelessly, her steps thudding on the wood floor.

“Jessica, what are you doing?” John hissed, shrinking back farther into the recess of the closet, awkwardly shielding Charlie’s head from hangers and hooks with his elbow. Jessica reached the window, snapped open the lock, and threw it open with a loud bang. John gaped as Jessica raced on tiptoe back to the closet, this time making no noise. She nestled in beside him, leaving the door open just a crack, and rested a hand on Charlie’s shoulder.

Within an instant, the bedroom door opened, and someone stepped through. The light from the rest of the house filtered in dimly, and through the tiny crack in the door, they could barely make out a silhouette in red, walking purposefully across the room. The figure paused for a moment, looking outside, then with a rush of movement too quick to follow, vanished out the window.

John stood stock still, his heart pounding, half expecting the mysterious figure to appear again in front of them. Charlie’s unconscious weight was starting to drag on his arms, and he shifted uncomfortably, trying not to jostle her.

“Come on,” Jessica said. He nodded, though she couldn’t see him. Jessica pushed the door open cautiously, and they were met with silence. They made their way to the hall, and stopped short again: Jen was slumped on the floor, blood spattering the wall behind her like an abstract mural, and pooled beneath her, trickling across the floor in little rivulets. John raised his hand to cover Charlie’s face. There was no doubt that Jen was dead: her eyes glazed and dimmed with the marble stare of death, her stomach laid open.

“We have to go,” he said hoarsely, and they turned from the grotesque scene and hurried out of the house. They ran headlong down the hill. John stumbled on the uneven gravel, barely catching himself, and Jessica turned back. “Go,” he grunted, and clutched Charlie tighter, slowing his pace just a little.

At last they reached the car, and Jessica opened the back door and got in, then scooted over to the far side and reached out to help him put Charlie inside. Together they laid her across the back seat, placing her head in Jessica’s lap. John started the car.

As they sped through the night he kept checking the rearview mirror, reassuring himself: Charlie still slept, as Jessica twined her fingers in her hair, looking down at her face in wonder. John met her eyes in the mirror and saw his own thoughts on her face: She’s here. She’s alive.

*  *  *

Charlie raced down the hill, exhilarated, almost leaping—she felt like if she went fast enough she might take off and fly. Her heart was beating in a new rhythm; the night air was cool and fresh, and all her senses felt heightened: she could see anything, hear anything—do anything.

She reached the bottom of the hill and took off up the next one—she had parked her car behind it. She smiled into the night, picturing Aunt Jen’s face in the moment it had dawned on her what was about to happen. That smooth, near-impermeable calm had ruptured; the cold-blooded woman had become a soft, frightened animal in the space of an instant. At least she had the dignity not to beg, Charlie thought. Or maybe she just knew it wouldn’t help. She shivered, then shrugged.

They had been having pleasantries, then Charlie gave Jen a wide, cruel smile, and Jen screamed. Charlie advanced on her, and she screamed again; this time Charlie choked off the noise, grabbing Aunt Jen by the throat. She lifted her off her feet, and slammed her into a door with such force it clattered in its hinges. Her aunt tried to crawl away, and she caught her by her hair, now sticky with blood, and threw her into the wall again. This time she did not try to run, and Charlie crouched beside her and put a hand around her throat again, taking her time now, relishing the feeling of her aunt’s pulse beneath her fingers, and the terrified look in her eyes. Jen opened and closed her mouth, gawping like a fish, and Charlie watched for a moment, considering.

“Is there something you’d like to say?” she asked mockingly. Jen made a tiny, pained nod, and Charlie leaned in close so she could whisper, keeping an iron grip on her throat. Jen took a thin, rattling breath, and Charlie reluctantly lightened the pressure enough to let her speak.

Her aunt wheezed for a moment, trying twice to speak before the words made it out. “I’ve always … loved you … Charlie.”

Charlie pulled back and gave Aunt Jen a calmed look. “I love you, too,” she said softly, and then she ripped open her stomach. “I really do.”

Charlie reached her car; she was running so fast she ran a few yards past it before she could stop. She wanted to keep running, to keep this feeling alive. She opened and closed her fists; the blood on them was tacky and growing uncomfortable. She started the car and opened the trunk to get the first-aid kit she always carried. Standing in the beam of the headlights, Charlie took out some gauze and hydrogen peroxide and carefully wiped her hands clean finger by finger. When she was done, she examined them and nodded, satisfied; then she got in her car and sped off into the dark.