PART TWO

Long ago, a small village sat far up in the mountains above the clouds. The people who lived there were tough and hardy, having survived many harsh winters in the high altitude. From time to time neighboring kingdoms attempted to lay siege to the village, only to return home in defeat and in awe of the villagers’ superior strength and cleverness.

Several times a year the people of the village would hold magnificent festivals with music and dancing, and create great paintings in colorful chalk that wound throughout the streets wrapping the entire village in beautiful scenes. The paintings told stories, depicting the trees and birds and other beautiful features of their mountain home. When the festivals were over, rain and snow would wipe away the pictures and the wind would carry off the music, as if to cleanse the village for the next celebration.

One special symbol could be seen repeated throughout the artwork on the ground, the songs, and even the designs of the musical instruments. The symbol was a gnarled tree, made entirely of silver and covered in tiny, round leaves. Special silver chalk was made and used only for the purpose of depicting this tree.

Legend had it that the silver tree grew from the very top of the tallest mountain in the range, and it provided the source of the villagers’ power. This was the prize that drew army after army up the mountain pass. They believed that if they could subdue the villagers and locate this tree, they would achieve invincible strength and riches. But no one had ever seen the tree themselves.

The villagers believed in the tree, and they were terrified of it.

Each year, one person from the village would be sent up the mountain to where the silver tree was thought to grow. And each year, that person would not return. No one knew what happened to them, but the villagers believed that this sacrifice would ensure their continued prosperity.

Deciding who should be given up to the tree was the subject of intense debate. Some felt it should be a young person, to show that the village offered its greatest strengths. Others believed it should be someone old and wise. A few decided that it didn’t matter, since whoever went was simply going to perish from exposure on the mountain anyway. There was even a small group who did not believe in the silver tree at all, and felt that the whole exercise was pointless. What no one could deny, though, was that whoever went up the mountain was invariably never seen again.

The one thing everyone agreed on was that the chosen person should go voluntarily. And so, each year, three or four people would come forward, and the oldest person in the village would choose. The chosen one would be given lavish gifts and outfitted for a journey with every kind of provision before being sent away, never to be seen again.

One year as the villagers gathered outside to debate who would be next to climb the mountain in sacrifice to the tree, they were distracted from their task by an old woman calling to them from a ridge far on the opposite side of a great ravine. The villagers stopped their debate and stood dumbfounded as the elderly lady, bent forward with age, skillfully climbed first down into the gully and then up toward them.

Her arms were strong, and she pulled herself along using tree branches and a silver walking stick. As she came closer, the villagers could see that she carried a heavy satchel on her back.

Eventually she made her way into the village, her skirts leaving swirling shapes in the chalk drawings from the latest festival. Everyone moved back to let her pass and held their breath in anticipation. She continued walking, tapping the silver walking stick on the ground, until she reached the center of the crowd. There, she stopped.

The old woman swung the satchel off her back and lifted out a great volume with a leather cover. She held it up for all to see, and then let it drop. The book hit the ground with a heavy thud, and a cloud of colored chalk flew up all around it.

As the chalk settled the villagers leaned in to get a look. On the cover of this huge book were silver letters spelling the word, “Avenir.”

“This is The Book of the Future,” the old woman said. “I was born long ago in this village, but I have spent my life traveling to other times. I have come back to tell you what I have seen, and to warn you.”

The villagers were not convinced, but decided that even if the woman were crazy, she was a guest and they should listen politely.

“When I was a girl, I was sent up to be sacrificed to the tree of silver,” she said, pointing toward the top of the mountain. “I was proud to be chosen. And I was afraid. But what I found up there was not what any of you would expect.

“I climbed for several days. As I got higher, the conditions worsened. By the time I reached the summit, the wind was howling and I could not feel my fingers or my toes.

“Just when I thought I might drop from exhaustion, I was blinded by a great light. I had to shield my eyes as I moved closer because the sun was reflecting in my face. It took me what seemed like an eternity to trudge upward through the crushed rock that covered the mountaintop. Every step I took, I slid backward. I thought, ‘this is it, it’s the tree of silver. I am going to die. This is the end of my journey.’

“It was an old tree, gnarled, and twisted by its age. It looked exactly like the pictures I had seen painted on the ground in the village during the festivals. Like this one, here,” she said, pointing to a picture near her feet.

“As I got closer, I saw that the tree had tiny silver leaves, and that each leaf had a little hole in the middle of it. I was surprised to see that each leaf was perfectly round. The leaves were just like coins, hanging from the tree. It was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen.

“And then, I could not resist—I reached out and touched one of the coins. It came off in my hands, and as I looked down at it, well, that was when my life changed.”

The old woman looked up at all of the villagers gathered around her. Nobody said a word. All eyes were fixed on the storyteller.

“The next thing I knew, I was in a different place. I could tell that it was a city, but everything was different. The people were different, their clothes were different. They rode around on crazy wagons with black wheels, and there were lights everywhere. Everywhere I looked, there were lights. And noises that I did not recognize.

“Nearby there was a small tavern, so I went in. I thought maybe someone would take pity on me, a girl all by myself.

“When I went in, the grown-ups there glared at me and told me that children were not allowed. So I turned to leave. But a man behind the bar, the proprietor of the tavern, called out to me and asked me to come sit in his office in the back. I thought maybe I was in trouble, but I was all alone, so I did what he said. I walked through the smoky tavern, where there were moving pictures up on the walls, and I went into his office. I sat there on a chair until he was finished washing glasses.

“When the tavern owner came in, he acted as if he knew me. He was very kind, and he smiled, and he offered me something to eat. And he looked strangely familiar; I thought he vaguely resembled my grandfather. I did not know whether to trust him, but I was lost.

“That’s when he told me that he had been expecting me to come. He said that each year, someone would appear at his door looking utterly lost and out of place, as if they had come from the past. He told me that I had come through a portal, which I didn’t understand but I was too proud to admit it. He asked me if I had anything in my hand. I held it out, and there was the little round leaf from the tree, with the hole in the middle.

“The man told me that every time someone new appeared, they always had one of these little coins in their hand. And that this coin was a portal through time, and that I had traveled to the future.

“Well, as you can imagine, my face looked a lot like yours do now,” the old woman said, smiling at the skeptical expressions. “I did not believe him. But then he said something that made it impossible for me not to believe. He said, ‘I bet the last thing you saw before you came here was a tree made of silver, wasn’t it?’

“I stared at him. How could he know that?” The woman held up her finger. “I’ll tell you how. Because for centuries, people from our village have been traveling through time with the help of the silver tree and its leaves. This is why they seem to disappear. This is why you never see them again.”

The old lady paused a moment to let this information sink in. “And this man, the man in the tavern, he said that he was a member of the Guild. Do any of you know what the Guild is?”

She looked around. The older members of the crowd appeared startled to hear a term that had not been used in the village in such a long time. But they looked down to hide their recognition; no one wanted to admit that they knew anything about the Guild.

“Well, the Guild is a group of guardians. They are artists. They watch, and they draw the future. They see what others cannot see. And they create fantastic scenes, like the ones you see here on the ground.” She gestured around her at the chalk drawings. “This man, in the tavern, he was a member of the Guild. He was the first person I encountered on my long journey, and he made sure that I got off on the right foot. The rest, as they say, is history… although in the future. Future history.” The old woman smiled at the thought.

“Now,” the woman said, “I am back here where I started. I have lived a very long life. I have seen many things. But I am here now to warn you and to share the truth with you.”

“Warn us?” said a man in the crowd. “Warn us about what? Why are you here now, at this particular moment? Why hasn’t anyone else ever came back? How are we to know that you are not just making this all up, an old lady looking to gather a few tips as she travels from place to place?” A few heads nodded; the crowd certainly was not of one mind in their opinions about this strange woman. Why had she come, especially on the day when they were to choose their next sacrifice? What if she were an infiltrator from another tribe or kingdom, come to learn their secrets?

“I am here to warn you. The silver tree and its powers are secret no longer,” the woman said, raising her voice for everyone to hear. “I am telling you this because many others already know. And they will be coming. Like it or not, you are the keepers of the tree, and the portals, and the power that they represent. For generations, the secret has been kept in order to unburden you and with the hope that it would be forgotten. But your sacrifices, sending your people to travel through the portals, have kept the tree alive. It was only a matter of time before the tree and its powers became known again. There is a great desire in the world for power, and a hunger to dominate others. I have seen this hunger, and the suffering it creates, with my own eyes. I have fought many battles to protect you. The others you have sent up the mountain, they too have battled to keep you safe. It is your turn now to take your place as protectors of time and space.”

The old woman bent down slowly and picked up the heavy Book of the Future.

“And what is that?” asked the skeptical man who had spoken earlier.

“Insurance,” the old woman replied.

Quizzical looks crossed everyone’s faces.

“This,” she said, “Is The Book of the Future. It is unique in all the world. Uncounted multitudes of people would like nothing better than to get their hands on this book. But it is destructible, like any book. It is made of paper, and leather, and ink. And so, I give it to you as insurance. Should you find yourselves besieged, you must threaten to destroy the book. This will stop any invasion in its tracks and send the aggressors into retreat.”

“What does it do?” someone asked.

The old lady smiled. “Patience, patience,” she said. “Suffice it to say, that in combination with the portals from the silver tree, this is a very powerful book. But I am not convinced that everyone here believes what I am telling you, and I need to keep a little bit of information to myself.” She smiled. “As insurance.”

The crowd erupted into conversation, with everyone shouting out their opinions to everyone else. Questions flew. Hands waved. No one was sure whether to go forward with the sacrifice. The chalk drawings were blurred under everyone’s feet. The ritual had lost its rhythm, and the people were restless and frightened.

“Be advised,” the woman shouted, “your sacrifices have not been in vain. Every person you have sent up the mountain is at this very moment doing battle, somewhere in time, to preserve your secret. The Guild, in turn, are protecting and guiding them. But soon, our enemies will make it through and you will be called upon to defend yourselves. You are the only people who can protect the Clan, and the tree, and all they stand for. You can no longer go through your lives ignorant of who you really are.”

She paused and took a good look around at the crowd, which had hushed at the sound of these words. Those who had appeared startled to hear of the Guild, looked downright horrified at the mention of the Clan.

“You don’t know what the Clan is, do you?” the woman said, looking straight into the eyes of person after person—especially the children. “Of course not, the Clan has been hidden away from you. Well, it is time that you know. You are in battle, right now. Your Clan members are out there, right at this very moment,” she waved her finger out toward the forest, “are fighting for your survival. The least you can do is carry your part of the burden. For too long your responsibility has been buried in time and space.”

“You, all of you,” she declared, “are the Clan Silverwood. Sworn protectors of the tree of silver. Your purpose, your reason for existence, is to protect the tree from those who would use it only for their own selfish purposes, and to dominate and terrorize others. You are the keepers of peace.”

“Rubbish,” an old man cried. “This is all rubbish. This woman was sent here to trick us. These are all lies. All of it.” He jutted out his toothless jaw in defiance.

The woman stood before the old man and looked into his eyes. “I have not battled all my life, and fought my way back here, so you can just stick your head back under a rock and pretend you don’t know about the Silverwood Clan and its duties,” the woman said. “Jack. Jack Silverwood.”

The old man’s knees buckled as if he had been struck by lightning. “Wh-What did you say?” he stammered.

“You heard me, Jack,” the woman said. “You don’t recognize me, do you? I am afraid the years of battles and hardship have not been very kind to my face.”

He peered into the woman’s eyes. After a long pause he said, “Anna?”

“That’s right Jack, it’s me,” she said, “Anna Silverwood. Anna Helena Silverwood.”

“That’s a pretty cool story, mom,” Henry says, handing back the small, paperbound journal and popping another bite of waffle into his mouth. “Is there more?”

“Yeah, I think there’s more. Your dad gave this to me,” says Kate. She takes it from Henry and turns it over in her hands. “He got it from some other relative. I think there’s a whole series of these little notebooks. He always said this story is how we got our name, but I think somebody was just good at telling stories. It’s nice somebody took the trouble to write it down.” She flips through the well-worn, handwritten pages.

Helen is occupied using a straw to move water drops from her glass around on the formica table and stacking up miniature pyramids of non-dairy creamer containers.

It is 4 am at Stan’s Diner Supreme, a cheery establishment situated behind a twenty-foot neon sign standing at the side of the highway. Across a gravel parking lot from Stan’s is the Golden Motel, a long and squat two-story structure with a car parked outside every forth or fifth room. The motel’s own, smaller neon sign blinks, “O V C NCY.” There are definitely vacancies. There’s also free cable TV.

“Are Jack and Anna related? Like brother and sister or something?” Helen asks.

“Yeah, or are they husband and wife? And how come Anna is still the same age?” Henry wonders. “Do you age when you travel forward in time? Do you lose years when you go backward? How are you supposed to know how old you are?”

“I bet you age the same way,” Helen says, “It’s just that you don’t know how old you are until you go back to where you came from. Something like that.”

“Okay, or maybe if you add up all your traveling back and forth, you get your age. Except that doesn’t make sense, since she was old when she got back… ” Henry says. “Mom, do you age the same even when you travel in time?”

“I… have no idea,” Kate says, taking a bite of toast.

“Did dad used to read that to you?” Helen asks without looking up from her project. She has now collected the salt and pepper shakers, and small containers of creamer, in front of her. Using some wiring and a battery she pulled from her pocket, she has the creamers walking around in tiny robotic motions and clambering over the salt and pepper. Around and around, up and over. But she’s listening to every word.

“Yes, he read it to me many times,” Kate says. “I remember the whole story. Gave me the idea to name you Helen, actually,” she adds. “I don’t really believe any of it, though.”

“The Guild part is real,” Henry says.

Kate stares at her son. “What?”

“The Guild. That part’s real. My friend Rosie, she’s a member. She told me. Right before we left the city. Rosie says we’re both in the Guild. She said she’d see me again. I think she was serious.”

“Henry,” Kate sighs, “Look. I realize our life feels way out of control right now. With all of this discussion of Tromindox and our apartment getting shot up, and now we’re on the road to California. I am well aware that this is all pretty much—a big mess. Okay? And your drawings, there’s no denying that your drawings are… special. But this story, someone wrote it in this little book to explain things to a young child. That’s all it is. A legend from your dad’s relatives. ”

She pauses. “I think.”

Helen and Henry are still staring at her. “As far as I know,” she adds. Around and around go the tiny robots, wire feet clicking on the formica.

Kate looks at her kids, and considers that actually, it doesn’t matter whether the story is real or not. Reality has been, at best, negotiable lately. She decides, here at the table in the diner, that from this point forward she’s going to tell it like it is. Bounty hunting or not. Shape-shifting, human-eating creatures or not. Whatever happens, this family all need each other. And they have a long way to go to finally find the father of her children.

Kate lays some money down with the bill on the table. “What do you say we head down the road a ways and find someplace glamorous to get some sleep,” says Kate, eyeing the motel across the parking lot. A device in her pocket buzzes, but she doesn’t respond to it.

Helen and Henry slide out of the booth. Kate gives a friendly smile to the lady wiping the counter and they all shuffle out the door, the robots on the table left to climb up and down and go around in circles.

As the glass door of the diner swings shut behind them, the device in Kate’s pocket buzzes again. “Hold on,” she says, fishing it out and looking down. She reads the message, and lets out a sigh. “You guys go to the car; I’ll be there in a minute.”

Helen and Henry stand there without moving. This is standard procedure, when their mom says something unexpected, to pause until she feels it necessary to repeat herself. This feature is built into all kids. After a pause, Kate repeats, “Well go on, I won’t be a minute.” She turns and heads across the gravel lot toward the Golden Motel, pulling up the collar of her coat. The walls of the motel glow orange in the neon light. Helen and Henry lean on the car to wait.

Kate’s form grows more distant until she is right up against the motel wall. They can see her look down again at her device and then back up. She reaches into her coat and pulls something out. She takes up a position outside the door of one of the rooms. Blue television light escapes the window from inside, dancing across the curtains.

Kate shuffles sideways toward the door and hunches over the knob. She waits a beat, then two, and then bursts inside.

A silhouette leaps up, large enough to reach the top of the window frame. Maybe the person inside is a giant, or maybe the television light is casting a distorted shadow. Kate’s silhouette joins it in a flash, and the two struggle in a brief shadow puppet show. Shortly, the larger figure appears subdued and sinks toward the floor, changing shape—or melting—in the process.

Kate re-emerges from the motel room. The television’s light flickers. She walks back toward the car without looking up, a device in her hand. She shoves a portal into the side of it. Another hunt complete, another payment made. They have gas money now. And a little extra for supplies.

“We’re going to need to stay somewhere else,” Kate says simply as they climb into the car.

Miss Posey Van Buren of Brokeneck, California is a former great beauty, as evidenced by her perfect posture and hair and the way she carries herself with the self-assurance of a television super star. During her career she thrilled audiences worldwide with her performance in television’s most popular soap opera, and after she retired from the show she went on to make impassioned pleas for viewers to sponsor needy children in faraway countries for only a few dollars a month.

Miss Posey’s character’s demise was one of the most-watched events in daytime television. Not an eye was dry across the globe as she tragically succumbed to the injuries received when she threw herself in front of a bullet meant for her daughter. Her dying speech from the hospital bed, her tiny frame surrounded by tubes and beeping machinery, is still studied in acting schools today.

But that was a long time ago.

Miss Posey shuts off her tiny video camera. She has just finished filming a conversation between Eleanor Woods and an unfamiliar man in a black hat out in the middle of the street. This recording makes up the latest entry in Miss Posey’s meticulous documentation of all that occurs in her town. She has an unobstructed view of the street from inside the front window of the Brokeneck Bookstore. The only disadvantage to this position is that she is too far away to hear—or record—their voices.

Posey is well-aware that the townsfolk call her “Miss Nosey.” Or they say, “Miss Posey keeps you on your toesies.” Which she does. Everyone knows that Miss Posey’s lens can’t be far away, particularly when something interesting is happening. Or something uninteresting is happening. They count on it. This is the closest thing they have to journalism in Brokeneck.

Miss Posey turns away from the window. “Well, now, I just wonder who that man was,” she says, her voice a cross between old Hollywood and a Southern drawl. Miss Posey has never lived in the South. She turns Southern charm on and off like a button, a tool from her acting arsenal. She feels that this helps her to maintain genteel relations with the public. “And,” she continues, “I wonder what that man gave to Mrs. Woods.”

“Don’t know. Nice boots, though,” says the young man perched behind the counter. Had he not spoken, he might have remained unnoticed amongst the precarious stacks of books and periodicals, the posters covering the wall, the very large metal antique cash register, and the enormous collection of stuffed animals arranged around him.

Daniel Brush, seventeen, doesn’t own the bookstore. The store belongs to his uncle, a gentleman known as Mr. Brush. Mr. Brush went away suddenly about two weeks ago. Now the only sign of Mr. Brush in the bookstore is a pasty photograph staring out from the wall behind the counter. He has a bald-head, and suspenders, and he is scowling. But the sun must have been in his eyes, because it is not like Mr. Brush to scowl. Mr. Brush isn’t a mean person at all. He’s kind of jolly, actually.

Daniel Brush, Mr. Brush’s nephew, is supposed to be finishing up the school year back at home. Well, he did all the work already, so there wasn’t much for him to do at school anyway.

Daniel is all dreadlocks under a rainbow-colored crocheted cap, legs and bare feet folded up under him on the creaky wooden stool. His sandals, made of natural non-animal materials, sit neatly on the floor next to him.

“What will you do with this place now, Daniel? With your uncle gone?” Miss Posey asks.

“I don’t know,” Daniel replies. “First, I think I’ll try and get it organized. You know, sort through all this stuff. Half of it isn’t even books.” Daniel is right. Items like antique typewriters and canisters of film and even a gramophone top many of the stacks of literature. Daniel casts a kind of hopeless look around at the forest of clutter. It’s clear he doesn’t know where to start. This is what keeps him propped on the stool behind the counter.

Posey lets her video camera hang from a loop around her wrist and picks up a particularly dusty, leather-bound volume from the table nearest to her. She flips through a few pages and then quickly puts it down so she can let out a series of dainty sneezes. Daniel takes the hint and gets up to start sweeping. Sweeping is at least a start. The heavy smell of old books, which he loved as a kid hanging around here with his uncle, just feels oppressive now.

“Could I ask you something?” Posey Van Buren asks.

“Sure,” Daniel answers, without looking up from his sweeping.

“Where did Mr. Brush go, exactly?”

Daniel stops sweeping, takes a deep breath and looks up at Posey. He appears faintly sad.

“I don’t know,” Daniel says. “I got this letter from him all of a sudden, a couple weeks ago. Said he had to go, could I come look after the shop right away. I said okay—it sounded important. By the time I got here, he’d already gone. Left the key right in the lock.” The afternoon sunlight shifts, and the window-panes throw neat, slanted squares of light onto the bookstore wall. Mr. Brush’s picture stares out from one of them.

“So, no hints? He wasn’t sick or anything?” Miss Posey asks.

“I don’t think so.”

“Now, Daniel, I don’t want to seem, well, forward,” Posey says in her artificial charming drawl, “but I would be remiss if I didn’t at least tell you what I think… ”

Daniel continues sweeping. He knows enough about Miss Posey to keep his distance. He’s been coming to stay with his uncle in Brokeneck and helping out in the shop during the summer months since he was a kid. He’s overheard many conversations down at the diner about Posey’s tendency to embellish even the smallest incident, and polish it until it is a big, shiny scandal. Daniel is unimpressed.

“What I think is,” Posey continues, “that I know, or I think I know, where your uncle is. Or where he might be. Or… ” She throws up her hands in front of her in a defensive gesture when she sees Daniel’s expression, and the video camera swings from her wrist. “Hear me out.”

“Really, Miss Van Buren, I appreciate your concern, but I’ve got a lot of work to do here… ”

“Alright, alright. Just humor me for a second.” She turns and with her thin arm makes a graceful, sweeping gesture at the stacks, video camera swinging as she moves.

“Everything in here means something to somebody. A memory, a life event, something. Everything in here has passed through people’s lives. It all carries people’s memories. Each and every little detail—it matters to someone. Your uncle understood that. So before you take the store apart, or throw anything away, look very carefully at what’s what. What’s stacked where. That’s all I’m going to say.”

Daniel considers this for a moment. While he is considering, Miss Posey turns toward the door, video camera swinging, and says, “And, you might think about starting with the notebook underneath the cash register. If you want to talk about it, you know where to find me.”

Daniel watches Miss Posey leave the store, the door swings shut behind her and the bell tinkles. That lady has to be the most obsessive person he has ever encountered. No single detail about anything, anywhere, fails to capture Posey’s attention. But, the fact is that Posey Van Buren sees. A lot. As annoying as she is, she is a human encyclopedia on the subject of Brokeneck and everything and—everyone—in it.

Daniel sets aside the broom. He sits down on the stool and leans back, squints, tilts his head and takes a look around the massive, antique, scroll-covered brass cash register. Papers, books and other unfinished business cram every space on the counter. There hardly seems to be enough space to put anything underneath the register. Certainly not enough room for a notebook.

But he stuffs a pinkie finger under there anyway, to see if Miss Posey is making things up. He feels the edge of something—but as he pushes on it, it slides farther away. Now he can’t get at it. He slides open a drawer and pulls out a pencil, and tries that—but it doesn’t fit. He peers under there—he can clearly see some kind of flat object wedged in the space. After sliding it around with a finger again with no success in moving it any closer, he has an idea. He pulls out a paper clip and straightens it, leaving a hook on the end. He carefully slides his newfangled fish-hook under the register, and voila—a hand-sized paperbound booklet appears. In pulling it out, Daniel drops it onto the floor along with a few clumps of dust.

When he picks the notebook up off the floor, Daniel notices that the thick paper cover carries a strange round symbol embossed in the center. It looks like a circle with a square in the middle, and a line spiraling from the corner of the square out to the circle’s edge.

Daniel runs his fingers over the symbol, turns the book over a couple of times and opens it.

Many of the pages inside are blank, and the ones with writing are uninteresting; each page contains merely a single name and a date. Anna Blunderford, June 18. Gus Donaldson, June 23. Bobbie Hendricks Henderson, July 8. And so on. The dates are in order. A name, a date. Another name, another date.

Daniel doesn’t recognize a single name. He continues flipping through:

Jesse Ironsides, August 15. Deanna van Patten, August 17. Julie Chen, August 18. And so on. August, September, October… looks like about a year’s worth of names. But what year? It doesn’t say.

Daniel flips to the last page with writing on it and looks at the final name.

Marvin Brush.

Mr. Brush.

His uncle.

Come to think of it, something about the book does seem familiar.

Daniel yanks open the drawer beneath the cash register. He needs a receipt, a note, anything. He rummages around until he finds a paper with his uncle’s signature on it and holds it up next to the book. He was right.

The book is in his uncle’s handwriting.

“Sandy, these eggs are as bad as you’ve ever made ‘em.”

“Thanks Earl. Eat up so you can grow into a big, strong boy.”

The Brokeneck Diner is busy this morning, as busy as it ever is. The diner faithfully serves the exact same group of people each and every morning, sitting in the same seats and eating and drinking mostly the same things.

The diner sits like a lookout at the end of Brokeneck’s Main Street, the farthest building from the Brokeneck Hotel. The structure itself resembles an oversized silver train car that got stuck in the dirt, topped with a triangular neon sign that reads simply: EAT. It sticks out amongst the gold rush era wooden buildings that line most of the rest of the street.

Mrs. Woods, having made the short trek from the opposite end of town, pushes open the diner’s double glass doors and enters. She smiles at Earl and the other scattered patrons, and slides onto a red vinyl-covered stool at the counter.

“Morning Eleanor,” the waitress behind the counter says while scooping up an empty coffee cup and stray salt and pepper shakers. “How are things down at the hotel?”

“Morning Sandy, just fine, thank you,” Mrs. Woods says.

Sandy places a full cup of coffee on the counter in front of Mrs. Woods without being asked. “Earl’s in an especially good mood this morning,” she says, nodding in the direction of the man a few seats down.

Earl, a broad man in a short-sleeved shirt and suspenders who doesn’t look a day over 85, is situated at his customary place at the counter. He gives Sandy a look and hunches over his newspaper.

“What’s in the news today Earl?” Mrs. Woods asks. Sandy makes a face, as if to say that’s not a good question to ask at the moment. But Mrs. Woods remains undeterred.

“Aw, everything’s goin’ to hell, as usual,” Earl says. He plunks his thick finger down on a headline on the paper and taps it several times. “See this?”

Mrs. Woods leans over to look. It’s an article about a dog show in Boise, Idaho. “Okay,” she says.

“Can’t you see it? Look.” He shoves the paper over into the space on the counter between them, upsetting a ketchup bottle in the process. “Here, and here and here.” He scrunches the paper around so a couple of other headlines are now closer together. One headline contains the word, THEY’RE, another the word COMING, and a third, SOON.

“There you go,” Earl says, leaning back triumphantly. “I told you.”

“You told them what, Earl?” says a voice from behind him. The voice belongs to Ted, whose slight frame is completely hidden by Earl’s bulk. Ted is a wiry, sun-dried old man in a grimy baseball hat. He always wears the hat down just a little too far, then lifts his chin to peer at people under the bill. This gives him a look that is both defiant and comical.

“It’s all here Ted,” Earl says to his much smaller friend. “All you have to do is look for it. The message is there.”

“Earl,” Ted says, “don’t you think if ‘they’ wanted to tell us something, ‘they’ would save us the trouble and just put the whole thing in ONE headline? You know, so we citizens could read it instead of conducting some ridiculous origami experiment to put it together?”

Earl laboriously turns around to face Ted, rotating his stool and stuffing his knees under the counter. He puts both hands in front of him, elbows out, and leans forward. If he wanted to, he could probably squish Ted between his fingers. But he hasn’t done that yet in the fifty or so years they have known each other, so he’s not likely to do it now.

“Ted, you are as dense as these eggs. You know as well as I do that you can’t just spell things out like that; you’ll panic the general population. You have to inform the knowledgeable people first. That’s exactly what they did last time, and now they’re doing it again. That’s all.” Earl rolls his eyes to convey the absolute obviousness of what he’s just said.

“Okay Earl,” Ted says with more than a touch of sarcasm. “It worked so well last time. That’s why they’re doin’ it again, no doubt.”

Everybody goes back to their eggs and coffee for a minute.

“Did you hear Mr. Brush went away?”

The question comes from a booth in the window. Rose Mayfield, a tiny woman with wire-rimmed glasses and frizzy hair, sits knitting an endless scarf that stretches across the formica table in front of her and then drops to the bench seat opposite her. Everyone turns to look at her. It’s easy to forget Rose is there, most of the time. When she speaks, she doesn’t address anyone in particular.

“I heard he went off to Vegas,” Ted says.

“Vegas? You dimwit,” Earl says. “Marvin Brush has no use for Vegas. What is wrong with you? He probably just needed some time off, and went for a nice walk in the woods. Maybe he wanted to get outta that musty bookstore for a while. Got that Daniel kid looking after it.”

“You have to admit that’s unusual, though,” Mrs. Woods says. “It’s not like Marvin to leave without telling anyone. I didn’t see or hear a single thing, even with my hotel right there across the street from the bookstore. I hope everything is alright.”

“Seriously, he’s fine,” Ted says. “I tell you, he just needs a vacation.”

“Mr. Brush is not on vacation,” Rose says, never lifting her eyes from her knitting.

“Who told you that, Rose, your husband?” Earl says.

“Yeah Rose, did your husband pay you a visit?” Ted asks. “Did you stop knitting for a little while? That’s when he comes back from the dead, isn’t it? When you stop knitting?”

Rose shoots them a look. “As you can both see, my knitting continues unabated.”

“Well, good,” says Earl. “Because I don’t want ol’ zombie Don coming around. You keep knitting, Rose, don’t stop. Keep that fellow in his grave, where he belongs.”

“Anyway, Mr. Brush didn’t go on vacation.” Rose says, and goes on knitting.

Ted uncrumples Earl’s newspaper and flattens it on the counter so he can read the articles. “Any ideas on where he went then, Rose?” he says without looking up. “Or maybe we should consult with the newspaper folding czars?” Earl glares at Ted and then down at his eggs.

“He went into the lake,” a voice says in the unmistakable drawl of Miss Posey Van Buren. Posey has been waiting silently just inside the door, listening to the discussion.

Earl exerts enough effort to turn all the way around, in the other direction, to look at Posey. His face lights up. “Here’s Posey! How are you, young lady?” Earl has always had a secret, or not so secret, crush on the glamorous woman with the camera.

“What do you mean, ‘into the lake?’” Mrs. Woods asks, setting her coffee down on the counter.

“I saw him,” Posey says. “He walked into that lake and didn’t come out. It’s happening again.”

“See?” Earl says. “Here we go again. People going into the lake. Just like they did before.”

“Now that’s odd,” Mrs. Woods says to herself. But of course everyone hears her.

“That lake, it’s no good,” says Rose at her table, knitting needles moving back and forth. She has probably added a foot in length to that scarf the last few minutes. “That lake enchants people, it does. Makes ‘em lose their minds.”

“You mean like ol’ Zombie Don?” Ted asks. “Zombie Don doesn’t like when you stop knitting, now does he, Rose?”

“My knitting is my way of telling him I still care about him,” Rose says. “Don just gets restless, is all.”

“Fine, just keep ‘im away from my eggs,” Earl says, popping the last bite into his mouth.

“Posey, did you get any video?” Mrs. Woods asks. “Did you make a recording of Mr. Brush at the lake?”

Posey’s face broadens into a wide smile, revealing a magnificent set of teeth. She certainly must have been a beauty back in the day. “Why yes, I did,” she says.

Everyone in the diner gathers around Posey at the counter to peer at the tiny screen. Posey presses play. Nothing happens. She presses again.

“Now that’s strange,” Posey says, shaking the camera a bit as if to loosen the movie so it will come out of the camera.

“No battery,” Ted says, peering from underneath his hat brim. “Posey, I fear that you’re outta battery.”

Sure enough, the camera is dead as a doornail.

“Well, I… ” Posey stammers, looking down at the camera.

“It’s alright young lady,” Earl says with a smile, “You just charge that thing back up and then we’ll watch.”

“That is, if it wasn’t already dead when you tried to film this incident,” Ted says unhelpfully.

“Well,” Posey says, disappointed. She straightens. “I know what I saw. With my own eyes. And it was Mr. Marvin Brush, all right. Walked into the lake. I saw him. Plain as that bottle of ketchup there on the counter.”

“Maybe we ought to set up some kind of lookout from the hotel, Eleanor, since you’ve got the best view,” Ted says. “Perhaps there’s comings and goings that might reveal important facts.”

“Eleanor?”

But Mrs. Woods is no longer there—she has left behind a still-steaming refill of coffee on the counter, as the glass door swings closed.

Gabriel Silverwood looks down at the padded, unmarked manila envelope that dropped down through the trees from a drone overhead. This, most likely, is the information that the Chairman promised to send. He scoops it up from the ground and pulls out a clear piece of plastic about the size and thickness of a placemat at a pancake restaurant. When he touches it, it lights up with files, photos, maps, and layer upon layer of information. He sits down on a rock to take a look at it. He can hear far-off crows screeching, disturbed at the sight of the delivery drone. Gabriel can’t say that he blames them.

He doesn’t think too hard about how the Chairman knew his location. He’s used to that fellow popping up everywhere. In Gabriel’s opinion the Chairman has way too much power, he’s got his hands on far too much information. There’s really nowhere to hide from the Council.

Except, apparently, in prison.

A video pops up in the center of the display. It’s the Chairman. He is looking dapper, as always, in a dark double-breasted jacket and black dress shirt with an expensive sheen to it. He keeps his tailor busy.

“Hello Mr. Silverwood,” he says. “As we agreed, you are to locate and track Tromindox T-441, who is in possession of a large number of portals as well as The Book of the Future. You are to relieve him of the portals, and the Book, and return them to me. Once I have received these items, you of course will be released to travel to the same timeframe as your wife and children. This will be a one-way trip as per our arrangement. Oh, and Gabriel, do keep yourself focused on the task at hand. Because if you don’t, you will be filed away again. For a very, very long time. And no one will be coming to liberate you this time. I hope we understand each other.”

The window shrinks and disappears from the display. Gabriel picks up a metal cup filled with lukewarm coffee, and sips it.

“Got your marching orders there?” Christopher Silverwood emerges from the trees. Christopher is Gabriel’s younger brother. His black hair is chopped up into a sloppy mohawk. Like Gabriel’s, his twenty-year-old body is wiry. But his skin is tan, because he hasn’t been locked up in prison for the last several years. Or months, depending on how you count being filed away in another time frame. Christopher takes a seat on a nearby log and waits for a reply from his brother. He scrunches leaves around on the ground under his thick boots.

“Yep,” Gabriel says, staring down at the jumble of information competing for his attention from the light sheet. The portals, tiny white circles, move across the map along with what he presumes is T-441. As far as anyone knows, this Tromindox could have been back and forth and eaten a large number of humans already. 441 took a lot of portals, so it’s probably a real party right now.

“We’re supposed to go find this guy.” Gabriel hands the light sheet over to his brother. It’s showing a photo taken of T-441 in the last year or so, on a grey day on a city street. Looks like San Francisco. This is one busy Tromindox.

“He’s digital,” Christopher says, squinting.

“No kidding,” Gabriel says. “We’re looking for a fellow with no face. To say that’s inconvenient is an understatement.”

“Being in prison is inconvenient, and you dealt with that okay,” Christopher says, attempting to be encouraging. “We’ll locate this individual somehow.”

“This job is going to require fraternizing with a lot more Tromindox than we’d like, Chris. We will need a strategy.”

“Well you don’t need too much of a strategy, with that special anti-Tromindox blood flowing through your veins. Those critters won’t come anywhere near you.”

Gabriel knows that’s true. He’s got the same blood as his daughter. Any Tromindox that comes in contact with Gabriel’s blood is done for, a pile of dust. It’s a Silverwood trait, although a recessive one. He wishes both his kids had it. At this moment he also fervently wishes Christopher had it. But Christopher doesn’t, and that worries Gabriel.

“Wait, I know,” Gabriel says and jumps up to rummage through various duffle bags. Out comes equipment of all shapes and sizes, cups and batteries and other items rolling out onto the ground. Christopher watches this process patiently. He knows better than to interrupt his brother when he has an idea—even if it turns out to be a pretty poor idea.

“Ah,” Gabriel says. He yanks out an object and holds it up. It is a tiny vial with a metal cap, attached to a chain. A wide grin takes over his face.

“Okay,” Christopher says, looking at the vial swinging in front of him. “I await your brilliant strategy, big brother.”

“We put some of my blood in here,” Gabriel says. “Then, we put this around your neck.”

Christopher looks doubtful.

“Think about it,” Gabriel says. “If you saw a human, and that human had a vial on him that had something in it that you knew could dissolve your sorry ass in mere seconds, would you mess with him?” He doesn’t wait for an answer and instead puts his index finger in the air. “No. No, you would not. That is why you need to wear this. Just the sight of the blood in the vial, and you’re good. The squid will keep their distance and give us room to roam. That’s our plan.”

Gabriel grabs a utility knife and pricks his finger. He grimaces as he squeezes drop after drop of blood into the vial. Pretty soon he’s got what looks like a beautiful, deep red ruby necklace. He replaces the lid, puts his finger in his mouth and holds the vial out with the other hand to Christopher, who takes it.

“So,” Christopher says, “Do I just walk up and hold out this vial and announce, ‘Hi, I’m Christopher, and this here is really bad for you so back off’?”

“Nah,” Gabriel says, shaking his hand out. “No need. Any Tromindox that sees people’s blood being displayed conspicuously like that is going to assume it’s from a Silverwood. I wish we had a syringe to put it in, like the one Kate uses, but this is what we’re working with. We’re doing the best we can with what we’ve got. Just make sure it stays out and visible. You’ll be good. Plus, you’ll be with me right? And I’m like a walking Tromindox bomb. They all know it.”

Gabriel starts packing up all the gear he threw on the ground, including his coffee, which he downs before tossing the cup in the bag too. “Now, my friend, it’s time to get moving and locate our digital friend T-441.”

The first people to go digital were war veterans and victims of violent crimes or disfiguring accidents. Damaged beyond recognition, they lost their identity. But then someone discovered a method by which to create a digital face, based on a person’s original face, and an industry was born. Now people without faces could wear a state of the art display that gave them a complete set of their own expressions, the ability to talk like a real person again… going digital gave many people their lives and their identities back.

It didn’t take long for the plastic surgery racket to take notice. Soon women and men displeased with the ravages of time could acquire for themselves a younger, more vibrant face. Never mind that their bodies didn’t match and how that difference became more and more unsettling as time passed. Plenty of people were content just to talk to a pretty face regardless of who could be found behind it. The number of procedures skyrocketed. Bank accounts filled up for some people while they emptied out for others.

Next, of course, came the mob, and the witness protection program, and anyone else who could use a little altered identity. It was no small thing to go digital; the government was quick to get in on the act and regulate it… and to take their cut. But for the right price, a new face could be had. One that would never change. Unless it was reprogrammed, of course. This was the true beauty of the technology.

The digital face wrapped around the front of the skull, like a smooth mask. It had a high-resolution display fused to the head, and pulled 3-D facial information right out of one’s brain and nervous system. Eyebrow twitches, crinkly smiles, even tears became possible. From the side you could even make out a profile. Add hair or a wig or a hat, and you had a very realistic, digital doll.

And who invented this amazing procedure, a procedure that became indispensable to people as soon as they learned it existed?

The Tromindox did. Of course, this fact is hardly surprising.

The Tromindox were in the business of absorbing people and feeding off their thoughts. And while shape shifting helped them hunt, it was by no means foolproof. People tended to stay away from the ratty-looking humanoids. They didn’t look right. The Tromindox knew it; they needed a new way to blend in.

Enter the digital face.

The Tromindox didn’t try out this experiment on themselves at first. They let their prey adopt the new technology, so they might become accustomed to the idea of digital faces in the crowd. Once this sight became routine for humans, the Tromindox knew they could do it themselves and move about unnoticed.

The digital face required an enormous amount of data from the brain, nerves, and DNA of the wearer in order to function. This was no mask; this was you. A real you, preserved in pixels. It could recreate the way you raised your eyebrow, twitched your lip, expressed a change in mood. Everything. The face connected to your very being. Intertwined. Completely you.

Unless, of course, it was someone else.

A black market digital face was costly, but worth it if there was a price on your head. People who had gone digital couldn’t work for the government or in any position that required security because that was far too risky. Going digital was a one-way trip.

Since taking the portals from the Council, Tromindox T-441 somehow found the time to go digital. This will make him very hard to identify. No doubt this was part of his plan.

Gabriel and Christopher are not tracking 441, though. They are instead following the stolen portals, dots moving across the map they received from the Chairman.

This plan seems to be working well, though the two men have to keep moving at all times and occasionally their path leads them straight across a crevasse or through a body of water. But over the several hours they have tracked the portals, they have not lost any ground.

Until Gabriel stops walking and says, “Oh, no.”

“What?” Christopher asks, coming up next to his brother and looking over his shoulder.

The dots representing the portals are disappearing from the map, one by one.

“No, no, no!” Gabriel shouts. He paces back and forth, holding the display out in front of him. “No!”

Gabriel drops his hands, the light sheet at his side. He looks at his brother with the look of a kid whose ball has gone over the neighbor’s fence.

“The portals are gone. We’ve lost him.”

“Let me see that,” Christopher says. He reaches down and takes the display from his brother’s hand. He holds it up in front of him, turns it around a couple of times. He tilts it back and forth. He even holds it up toward the sun and looks through it. “What the hell?” he says. “What are we supposed to do with this? Is this your Chairman friend’s idea of a joke?”

“Aw man,” Gabriel says. He has dropped his pack on the ground and begun pacing and pulling his hair back tight from his face. Christopher always tells Gabriel that he’ll get a receding hairline by pulling like that.

“The portal signatures are fading for some reason,” Gabriel says. “I don’t know why. Maybe the Tromindox have figured out how to mute them. What if they are gone for good? Crap.”

“Well,” Christopher says, “let’s make note of the exact spot where they disappeared and head for that location. Maybe there will be evidence there as to what happened. Or maybe they will reappear, who knows?”

“This makes no sense,” Gabriel continues, as if Christopher hasn’t said anything. “Portals can’t all disappear at the same time like that. They leave an echo, always. Even if the Tromindox did use them all at once. There would be a trace. Unless, of course, this stupid map is sending us a faulty signal. Or we’re being misled and walked into a trap. There’s no shortage of people on that Council who would love to knock off all the Silverwoods, one by one.”

“Well, this is what we’ve got to go on; the last known position of the portals. Right?” Christopher repeats himself, hoping his brother will hear him this time.

Gabriel is not pleased. He knew he was taking a huge risk by cutting a deal with the Chairman. But that’s the art of deals: make the other person feel as if they have no choice. That’s what the Chairman did, what he always does. When the two of them spoke, Gabriel felt like he had no other choice but to go along, with the hope of finally locating his family in space and time. But the deal is changing already. The portals are inexplicably disappearing, and this is looking like a fool’s errand.

Gabriel feels like an idiot. His family’s faces gather in his mind, seeming farther away from him than ever. His wife’s hand, the hair on top of his son’s head. All out of reach.

Gabriel retrieves his pack from the ground and swings it onto his back. He looks at his brother. For a guy with a stupid haircut, Christopher can be really level-headed. “Yes, Chris, that’s what we’ve got to go on,” he says, and the two of them head off down the mountain toward the location where the portals disappeared, their boots sliding in the mud and leaves. “In case this is a dead-end, let’s pay attention and be sure we’re not followed.”

“We’re being followed,” Kate says, peering into the rearview mirror mounted on the driver’s side door of the station wagon. Fortunately, the road in front of them is straight or she would have driven right off it by now.

Helen looks up from the glove compartment, where she has rewired the bulb to make a tiny strobe light. She twists around in her seat to look through the back window. She can’t see around the trailer so she cranes her neck to get a view in the mirror. “Really?”

Henry instinctively scrunches his head down as if to hide in the back seat.

“Don’t look back at them, Helen,” Kate says. “Let’s not make it easy to identify us.”

“Well if they’re following us, I think we’ve already been identified, don’t you think?” Helen says. She shoves the glove compartment door shut to stop the blinking.

“Maybe they’ve got the wrong people,” Henry says, hopefully. Clarence the dog sleeps on the seat, oblivious.

Helen leans behind her mother and looks into the mirror again. About fifty yards behind the Country Squire, in the fast lane, a black motorcycle cruises along matching their speed. The rider is dressed entirely in black with a smooth, featureless helmet. Kate slows down, and the motorcycle slows down. She speeds up (as much as you can speed up a two-ton station wagon towing a trailer); the motorcycle waits a few beats, and then speeds up too.

“What is it they say about how to tell if you’re being followed… ” Kate mutters, scanning through her memory of her most recent agent training. What was that technique? Oh, right, that’s right…

Up ahead, a small exit angles off the highway. It’s a spot to pause and stretch your legs or let out the dog. There’s nothing there really to justify an exit—a little ramp off the road, a view of some grass, and then another ramp back on.

Kate waits until the last second and veers onto the exit ramp. Dust flies up behind them, obscuring their view. They pull to a stop and sit still, still watching the mirror on the left side of the car.

The motorcycle speeds by with a roar of its engine—making everyone jump, except the sleeping dog—and disappears ahead.

Kate takes a deep breath. “Alright, let’s get back onto the road and see what happens.”

“What do you mean, ‘see what happens?’” Henry says. “It went by. Just, zoomed right on by. Like we’re not even here. That means it’s not following us, right? It’s up ahead, now.” To Henry this makes perfect sense. You can’t follow someone from in front. It’s a proven fact.

“Not necessarily,” Kate says. “You’d have to be an idiot to just pull off whenever we do. That would give you away. So he’ll probably go on for a few miles and then sit on the side of the road and wait for us.”

“Or, not. Right? Maybe not?” Henry says. This unidentified motorcyclist has made him very nervous. He grips Clarence’s ear. Clarence lets out a sigh but remains asleep.

Kate pulls the vehicle and its cargo back up onto the freeway, and eventually they drag their bulk up to full speed.

“Helen, you watch, okay?” Kate says.

“Okay.” Helen leans her elbow on the passenger door and watches. She watches lots and lots of grass and shrubs go by. Nothing big enough to hide a motorcycle. The black color alone would stand out against the yellow-gray landscape. Every so often there’s a broken fencepost, or a shed far off in the distance. But no motorcycle. Her mind begins to wander back to rewiring the glove compartment, but she restrains herself from messing with it.

A mile of freeway passes; then another mile—it would be difficult to hide in a landscape made up of basically nothing. Especially if you are a shiny black motorcycle. And there is none in sight. Helen wonders how far a motorcycle can go on a tank of gas.

“Dammit!” Kate yells, causing Helen and Henry both to jump partway out of their seats. “There it is again. In the rearview mirror. How did we not see it?”

“I didn’t see it,” Helen says.

“I know, Helen,” her mom says. “It’s not your fault. This guy is good.”

“Or, he just stopped to use the bathroom or something,” Henry says, always hopeful, from the back seat.

“He—or she, or it—obviously doesn’t care if we know it’s there,” Helen says. “Just right out there like that.”

“No, apparently not,” her mom agrees. Kate peers at their pursuer, trying to identify this person with no face, no color, no features. Could it be another bounty hunter, hoping to take her out of commission? Were they followed all the way from the city?

“That’s it,” Helen says. “This person owes us an explanation.”

“Helen!” Henry cries. He knows exactly what Helen is going to do. He is firmly against her doing it.

Helen reaches up to grab the luggage rack and swings out so she is sitting in the passenger window looking across the roof of the car at the motorcyclist.

“Hit the brakes!” Helen yells into the car.

“Are you holding on?” Kate says.

“Helen! What if he’s armed?” Henry shouts into the noise of the open window.

“Are you holding on Helen?” Kate says again.

“Yes! Hit the brakes!” Helen says.

Kate hits the brakes, bringing their motorcycle friend abruptly even with them.

“Hey, you! What do you want? What are you doing? Bug off!” Helen screams. She would make gestures, but she’s busy gripping the luggage rack with both hands. Her voice flies out of her mouth and whips away on the wind, totally inaudible. But her facial expression visible through her hair is unmistakably hostile.

In response the motorcycle drops back to a greater distance behind them. Here they are again, cruising along together down the highway. Nothing has changed. Helen lowers herself back into the car.

“Could you see anything?” Kate asks, trying her best to move past the fact that her daughter just climbed halfway out of a moving vehicle. Maybe Helen is more like her father than Kate previously thought. That is exactly what Gabriel would have done in this situation.

“Nah,” Helen says. She reaches down and opens the glove compartment. The strobe light resumes flashing. Helen pulls out a wire and the blinking mercifully stops.

“Ideas?” Kate says to her children.

“Lose ‘em,” Henry suggests.

“Can’t get up enough speed,” Kate says.

“Run ‘em over,” Henry says.

“I don’t see a good reason to commit murder today,” Kate says.

“True, forget that,” Henry says.

They ride along for a long minute, and then another, their companion still off their left side and back a hundred meters or so.

“Well, if we don’t want this guy accompanying us all the way to Brokeneck, whatever his motives, we’ll have to make a change and see what happens,” Kate says.

“Like, what kind of…” Henry asks.

Kate yanks the steering wheel to the right and the car and trailer swerve off the freeway and into the dusty terrain. The tires pound over the desert, sending everyone airborne with each bump.

“Is he still there?” Henry yells.

“Can’t tell, too much dust,” Kate replies. The scenery behind them has disappeared entirely behind a brown cloud.

“Okay, it’s about time we have a talk with whoever this is,” Kate says.

She yanks the steering wheel again, this time to the left, sending the heavy station wagon into a spin and throwing out another plume of dust and rocks. The car comes to a rest facing their pursuer head-on.

That’s the moment that they hear the snapping sound.

The attachment that held the trailer to the back of the station wagon is not doing so any more. The trailer flies off at a crazy angle, sideways, spinning around and around and rolling over, until it totally disappears. Silence.

And then, a distant crashing sound. Then another, followed by echoes of the distant crashing sounds. Finally, more silence. The only evidence of the trailer having existed is the thin veil of dust that remains hanging in the air.

Kate, Helen and Henry climb out of the car and stand staring, dumbfounded, after the trailer. It would appear that everything they own just ceased to exist. But how?

No. No way. Not possible. Unless…

They all run forward, thinking the same thing.

About thirty yards away, the ground drops off into a deep canyon. Invisible in the grey and gold terrain, the canyon has swallowed the trailer whole. The trailer now exists for the Silverwoods only as a shiny speck—lying at the bottom of a huge expanse. A faraway hawk cries.

Kate, Helen, and Henry stand on the edge, very still. Nobody dares to look sideways at anyone else.

“There’s a cliff, there,” Helen says.

“Yup,” Henry says. “Right there.”

More silence.

Finally Kate turns, slowly, away from the canyon that ate all her belongings. She looks up at the motorcyclist, who has pulled up about fifty feet away and now sits with his engine idling. Now that they can finally see their pursuer clearly, they make out the digital displays running across the front of the helmet. Every few seconds, like a stereo, tiny lights move up, and then down. Almost like… a heartbeat.

Helen and Henry watch their mom closely.

“Mom?” Helen says.

Kate feels a strong impulse to wring the neck of this pest on a motorcycle. But before she can act on it, the figure turns abruptly and zooms away with a cloud of dust and a loud burst of engine noise. They all watch as the black shape shrinks to a buzzing speck heading back the way it came. The dust drifts upward like the trail of an airplane in the sky, becoming looser and fading as it goes—not unlike the aftermath of the trailer landing at the bottom of the canyon. There is something lonely and final about trailing dust in a wide landscape.

When the air clears, the sun bounces off a shiny object lying on the hood of their car. Helen runs over and picks it up. It is a coin, with a hole in the middle. On one side is a spiral shape like the one she has drawn so many times, and on the other some characters that Helen doesn’t recognize. She turns it over a couple of times in her palm. This was a delivery? Was the motorcyclist bringing them one of these portal things? Could this be the only reason this person followed them all this way?

Henry takes it from Helen and looks it over. “I wonder what information is on this one,” Henry says. “Maybe it’s another map like the one we found… ”

Henry realizes that his mom is standing directly behind him.

“Like we saw, that time.” He quickly hands it to her, heads over to the back door of the car and climbs in.

Kate gives her son a typical parental look that tells him she knows he and his sister have been rummaging through her off-limits equipment. She is not surprised. Kate knows that if she were in their place she would have rifled through everything several times over by now.

“It’s a portal,” Kate says to her daughter. “Probably time-stamped. Most likely it carries some information on it that we need. I wonder why that guy felt the need to chase us down to give it to us. Or, that projection of that guy, anyhow.”

“Projection?” Helen hands the portal to her mom.

“Yeah, when I got a look at him finally, I could see that he was a projection—not a real person. That’s why the all-black outfit, and the lack of a face. There’s probably nothing to see inside the gear. That display on the helmet? Vital signs from the actual person, somewhere else—so they can pull back if they need to. They do that when they need to send someone into a situation, but they’re not… handy right at that moment. Or if the job is really dangerous.”

Was this job really dangerous? Helen ponders this idea. She wishes she could have gotten her hands on that helmet and taken it apart. Vital signs? Could you reverse the signal? Could you find out where the real person was using the projection? Helen’s mind spins with ideas.

“Helen, we need to go now,” Kate says. The slamming of the driver’s door pulls Helen out of her thoughts, and she climbs in.

“Youaresuchanidiot!!!” the voice yells. “What, you forGOT? You forgot to mute your projection? What is this, grade school?”

“Sir, I had no idea. I was sure I was muted. Really. I was.”

“Well, you weren’t. You… are a complete moron.”

The motorcycle rider, or rather the projection of the motorcycle rider, heaves a sigh. It has stopped at the side of the road to check in. The vital signs indicator on the front of its helmet pulses up and down.

“Look, I swear I was muted. I didn’t know until they freaked out and started yelling at me that they could see me. I don’t know what happened.”

“It doesn’t matter what happened, now. Kate Silverwood knows she is being followed. Did you at least get the portal into her hands? Or did you mess that up, too?”

“Yes, she has the portal.”

Silence on the end of the line.

“Fine. Turn your stupid self off.”

“Yes, sir.” The rider turns off the device and raises its arm. It touches a control on its wrist and the projection, motorcycle and all, disappears.

Two matching figures shuffle through the mountainous terrain: one with a ponytail, one with a mohawk. Gabriel and Christopher Silverwood are nearing the spot on the map where the portals, T-441, and The Book of the Future supposedly disappeared from the face of the Earth. Their boots snap small branches as the pick their way through the thick forest.

When they reach the coordinates, there is nothing to look at. No sign of any activity at all. They stand, hands on hips, surveying the area. Gabriel takes another look at the map.

“Hold on, there they are again. I think. No… Yes! There they are. See? They just popped up again.”

“What?” Christopher says. “Where? Please tell me that they’re not a hundred miles from here now… ”

“No, it looks like… ” Gabriel turns the display around a couple of times and looks at the ground, “If this is correct, everything we are looking for is under our feet. At least some of it is. Not all of the portals. But there are clearly portals right here somewhere. Maybe their signal was muted by the ground.”

The two brothers look down at their feet, and then at each other.

“Okay… ” Christopher says. “So that means…?”

“There has to be a cave or something underneath us, a Tromindox hideout,” Gabriel says. He looks up and turns in circles several times, surveying the area. He climbs a few paces uphill, but finds nothing. Stops and strokes his chin. As Gabriel ponders, Christopher takes off downhill. Gabriel goes uphill, so Christopher goes downhill. Gabriel looks at the sky, Christopher looks at the ground. Simple. That’s how it works.

They hear a rustling noise, not too far off. Then another one, closer.

Christopher disappears behind a rocky outcropping from which sprouts an enormous and ancient-looking tree. “Here’s something,” he says.

Gabriel clambers downhill to reach Christopher’s vantage point, boots skidding in the leaves. Together they lean forward to peer into a dark space beneath the tree’s giant, mossy roots. They look at each other again.

Gabriel takes another look at the display. “They’re definitely under here someplace.” The portals show up clearer than ever on the map, slightly larger now.

“Of course, this could just be a dumb old hole under a tree,” Christopher says. “I mean, doesn’t this seem kind of like a fairy tale or something? We’re going to feel like idiots if we end up stuffing our heads into some muddy roots.”

Gabriel leans in toward the opening, and wrinkles his nose. “Blech,” he says. ”That,” he adds, straightening up, “is the unmistakable stench of Tromindox. No doubt.”

“Thank you,” says a deep, gravelly voice behind them. The brothers leap up and spin around simultaneously to come face to face—or face to something—with a seven-foot-tall mass of tentacles and claws. “Thanks so much. Really,” it repeats.

The Tromindox draws up in front of Gabriel, very close to his face. Christopher instinctively reaches for his neck and touches the vial of blood hanging there. Gabriel straightens and raises his chin but he still only reaches to the creature’s shoulder.

“Well, if it isn’t Gabriel Silverwood,” the creature says. “Who got you out of prison?”

“People got me out,” Gabriel says, glancing sideways at his brother. “Look, we’re on the lookout for a Tromindox bloke called T-441. Ring a bell?”

Without much of a face, it’s hard to gauge any Tromindox response. But instead of answering, the creature melts to the ground, and in a tangle of claws and tentacles, it slithers underneath the tree. Just before it disappears into the darkness, it hisses, “Come ssssee for yourself.”

“Why, I could be wrong, but I think we have just been invited in,” Christopher says.

“That we have,” Gabriel replies.

The two men crouch down and push aside masses of roots. “I wish I could do that,” Christopher says.

“Do what?”

“Smoosh around like that. Change shape like an octopus. That would be cool.”

“No, it wouldn’t,” Gabriel says, in the tone an older brother uses to inform a younger brother that he does not know what he is talking about. Gabriel knows how much energy it takes for these creatures to change their shape all the time.

They shuffle along in a low crouch for about twenty-five yards, and then the cave opens up into space that, from the echoes, sounds like a huge cavern. The darkness is nowhere near as disorienting as the moans, squeaks and skittering sounds emanating from every direction. Gabriel and Christopher turn their lamps up to full power and brandish them out in front like weapons.

Dark shapes appear from all sides. Instinctively, the two men shove their lamps forward, as if to ward them off. The shapes recede somewhat, so Gabriel and Christopher walk forward, still holding the lights in front of them. It’s working. Black things skitter up the walls to escape from the beams.

One figure does not retreat but instead puts two long, bony hands up, skinny black fingers thrown into relief by the harsh lamplight.

“Honestly, can you not do that? Get that lamp out of my face,” the Tromindox says. “What are you trying to do with those things?”

“Sorry,” Christopher says, lowering his lamp. “We just thought… ”

“You thought what? That you could fight us off with torches? Look, we’re down here in a cave. It’s dark. You can’t just blast us with a bright light. Okay? You’re giving us a headache.”

“Okay, sorry, again,” Gabriel says. He’s not sure exactly where a Tromindox head begins and ends or how they would get an ache in it. He turns his light upward and looks around the immediate area, taking care not to hit any of the figures. “Nice place,” he says.

“Yes, it serves its purpose. It’s invisible to the drones,” says the Tromindox. “You see, we heard that you were coming.”

“How come everybody else seems to have more information than we do?” Christopher says, annoyed. “If people know where we are going and what we’re doing, what’s the point? Maybe you fellows would like to inform us as to why we’re here, also.”

“Well, you are Silverwoods,” says a new, deeper voice from the darkness, “so it stands to reason that you have most likely come here in pursuit of a rather large collection of portals.”

“Is that you, 441?” says Gabriel. He steps forward, and as he does several Tromindox shuffle away from him. Nobody in this cavern wants to accidentally come in contact with Silverwood blood.

The Tromindox turn their attention to the other human with Gabriel. What’s that around his neck?

T-441 glides forward out of the shadows. “Yes, it’s me,” he says. “We assumed that the Council would send some of you lot after us pretty quickly. You know, to do their dirty work for them.” 441’s digital face flips a few times like a television set with a poor signal. A few faces go by until he settles on a kindly older man with thin lips turned up slightly at the corners. The glow of the digital display throws a blue cast over the cavern like a TV set left on late at night.

“The Council has nothing to do with this. I’m just doing my job so I can cash in on my side of the bargain, that’s all. It’s just business,” Gabriel says.

“Right,” 441 says. “Well, I’m afraid we’re not simply going to hand anything over to you, if that’s what you had in mind.”

“Actually, I only require one single portal with the right signature,” says Gabriel. “That’s all. You can do what you like with the rest of the batch.”

“Good,” 441 says. “Because we are awfully busy. You see, this colony down here, they were all starving. Many still are. So we’re getting them fed, a few at a time. One group goes and comes back, then another group goes and comes back. See?”

441 turns and gestures toward an open area deeper in the cave where a shaft of light slices down to the floor. A motley group of emaciated Tromindox stand hunched over in a circle, each holding a portal. And then, they all fade and disappear together.

“Nice, isn’t it?” 441 says. “I saw a group travel like that once on this TV show. I think they called it a transporter. Anyway, they’ll be back soon, once they find prey. And then it will be time for the next group to go.”

“Do they all come back like they are supposed to?” Christopher asks, running his hand along the wall of the cavern. Images fill his mind of terrified humans shot full of Tromindox venom.

“Yes, so far,” 441 says. “Nobody’s gone off the grid, if that’s what you’re getting at.” The kindly digital face takes on a wry smile.

“And how are you going about calibrating these portals to their destination?” asks Gabriel. He sees no instruments, no devices, nothing. Surely they are not simply playing the lottery and landing in any old time and place. That would be far too dangerous.

“Oh, we’re old school,” 441 says. “We encode the portals using that handy Book of the Future. The pages of that book are much more reliable than any electronic means of time stamping. But of course, you know that already, don’t you, Gabriel.”

“That’s enough!” comes a booming voice from behind 441. Another Tromindox steps into the shaft of light, its features thrown into sharp relief. Tall like the others, this one wears black robes and an assortment of bones, including some type of skull, maybe a deer, around its neck. The bones make a hollow rattling sound as it moves. “I have listened to enough of this garbage. What is wrong with you? These—humans—should not be here and we should not be talking to them.” It extends a stick-like, accusing finger toward Gabriel and Christopher.

441’s digital face changes around again, as if searching for the right expression. It stops on a more stern face, a woman this time, and older woman resembling Margaret Thatcher.

“Well, they are here,” 441 says, “so we are making the best of it. What do you suggest?”

“What do I suggest?” deer skull says. “What is this, a meeting? Storytime by the campfire? These—humans—must leave this place, now.” More creatures gather behind deer skull as he speaks, many of them also wearing animal bones and skulls around their necks. More rattling sounds.

Gabriel draws up to his full height, and steps forward until he is face to face-area with his friend with the skull.

“Why don’t you make us,” Gabriel says, slowly.

This confrontation presents Christopher, ignored by everyone, with an opportunity. He works his way over to a wall that projects a waist-high stone outcropping. There lies The Book of the Future. Silently, and without looking down, Christopher turns a page, and another, until he gets to a particular one that appears to have been ripped out and reattached. Next to the book lie several portals.

At the center of the room, twelve Tromindox appear. They look much better than the group that just left; healthier, better-fed. A few of them stumble around as if still struggling with their prey. One of them has a digital face that switches from a blank oval, to a pattern, to the face of a human woman—its prey—screaming in terror but making no sound. Soon her identity will disappear, absorbed and converted to Tromindox energy.

“Okay, show’s over,” deer skull says. “Time for you folks to clear out of here. Sorry we can’t help you with your portal; as you can see we’re very busy.”

“Gabriel!” Christopher hisses. But his brother does not hear him.

“Look I told you,” Gabriel says, “I don’t care about your little project here, all I need is one portal pointed in the right direction and we’ll get out of your way.”

“Gabriel!”

Gabriel turns around in time to see the portal flying at his head. He snatches it out of the air and leaps backward to avoid a swinging tentacle from his deer skull friend.

“It’s here, the book!” Christopher shouts. “And the page is there!”

Gabriel ducks and lunges toward The Book of the Future. He slaps the portal down on the open page and it hums to life. He must maintain contact. Where is Christopher? They must go together!

“Chris, grab my hand!” Gabriel yells. But deer skull bears down on him and he must evade a mass of claws. He pulls the book to his chest, his hand sandwiched in the repaired page, and stumbles backward against the wall. “Chris?”

Gabriel can feel himself fading away. He screams for his brother, but no sound comes out. The figures around him distort, flashes of light obscure his vision.

The last thing he sees is the vial containing his blood rolling across the floor, and his brother’s face contorting in pain, Tromindox venom shooting into his neck. Christopher drops to his knees and his eyes lock on Gabriel’s. And then, Gabriel is gone.

Posey Van Buren takes up her position in the trees at the edge of the lake outside Brokeneck, seated primly on a rock. She looks down at the display on her tiny video camera. The battery icon says half-full; that should be enough power to make her recording.

Wisps of mist sit atop the lake. Upside down trees reflect in the surface. A hawk cries. All in all, it’s a lovely morning to visit the lake.

Posey shifts on her rock. It took her a while to bring her aging, frail body down here. These days she must take special care to avoid falling down. She notices that the rock she sits on is awfully hard. Perhaps next time she ought to bring along a cushion to sit on like the ones people use at sports arenas.

She straightens and cranes her neck when a figure appears about fifty yards away. It’s a man, youngish, maybe in his thirties. Posey has not seen him before. He wears a plaid shirt and a calm expression. His hair and skin are light-colored.

The man walks steadily forward out of the trees and toward the water. Posey hits record on her camera. Her subject pauses at the shore, and looks down at something in his hand. He steps farther forward, a few feet closer to the water, then a few more. He looks down again.

Soon the man is in the water up to his knees, then his waist. His hands hang at his sides. His expression remains calm. A murder of crows bursts upward into the sky with a flapping of wings, but the man takes no notice. Still walking, he’s up to his neck. Posey keeps filming.

When the top of the man’s blond head finally disappears beneath the surface of the lake, Posey turns off the camera. She pushes herself up from the rock with both hands and plots the smoothest course back through the forest.

Ripples created by the man’s movements reach the shore nearest to Posey’s position. The mist is dissipating as the sun warms the air, the surface reflections become still as the ripples subside, taking with them any remaining signs of the man’s visit.

This is extremely weird, Christopher thinks. Not what I expected—it’s like looking at everything through a veil.

Christopher is alive, but he’s not… himself. His thoughts feel jumbled. Sometimes he can see, sometimes he can’t.

He has to think, hard, and keep his mind intact until he can escape this Tromindox. What happened to the vial of his brother’s blood? Man, that would come in handy right now. A lot of good that vial did him. They just snapped it off his neck and tossed it on the floor. Christopher loves his brother, but sometimes Gabriel’s ideas don’t really pan out.

That’s right, think about Gabriel— and everyone else I care about. I must stay grounded, connected to reality until I can get out. Back in agent training, they said to picture someone’s face and remember every detail. They said grab on to the last person you saw and don’t let go.

Christopher thinks about his brother’s face. He must not let that image out of his mind, even for a second. But he is so, so sleepy…

RECORDING

Hi dad, again, it’s Helen.

I’m sitting on a rock in the desert. We’re taking a break from driving. It’s been an interesting couple of days.

We got followed by some guy on a motorcycle. We thought he was chasing us down, but it turned out he was just delivering a portal. Mom says she has two guesses who sent it, but she’s not saying who. We took a look at the information on it, and it’s got a map of hotels all the way from here to Brokeneck.

Mom told us this story in the car about how she chased down a Tromindox by riding on top of a subway train. I’m not sure I believe that one. I’m pretty sure I would notice if there was some lady with white-blonde hair battling a Tromindox on top of my train while I was going to work.

But I suppose, mom does whatever she has to do to hunt down those beasts. Since it’s her job, and it’s how she makes a living. So maybe the train incident did happen.

At least now she talks to us about what she does. That’s an improvement.

I’m still confused about how mom can tell which Tromindox to hunt down. She gets a message, and she goes. She’s not supposed to be bounty hunting now, too dangerous now that we’ve been followed. But she says we need the extra cash, so she’s risking it. Every so often she gets a message, and she takes off for a little while.

I haven’t had any dreams since we’ve been on the road. I haven’t had any Tromindox show up when I was awake either, for that matter.

Henry, though, he’s drawing some weird things. He drew a picture of his friend Rosie, where she’s in the ocean. And here’s a really strange one: he drew a picture of Rosie drawing a picture of him. And in the drawing of him, he’s in the ocean too. What is that supposed to mean?

Mom’s signaling it’s time to hit the road again, so I’ve gotta go.

Bye dad, I hope we see you soon. We miss you.

END RECORDING

The Chairman smooths his hair back, and takes a deep breath. He looks out the floor-to-ceiling window across a landscape of immaculate white high-rise buildings. He can just see a strip of dark green forest beyond the perimeter of the city.

He punches a button on a device resting on the equally immaculate glass surface of his desk.

The screen spits out some static, and then all he can see is a pattern that looks like asphalt. A road? Why is he looking at a road?

Now he hears unintelligible noises, and the view goes blurry. Finally, Gabriel’s less-than-friendly face fills the screen.

“Oh look, it’s you,” says Gabriel. No point in pleasantries this time.

“Hello Mr. Silverwood,” the Chairman says. “Do you have the portals?”

“I have one of them,” Gabriel says.

The Chairman furrows his brow. This is going to be a very long process if Mr. Silverwood is only going to acquire the portals one at a time.

“Oh, and I have The Book of the Future, too,” Gabriel adds.

Well, that’s better. That’s progress.

“Where are the rest of the portals, then?” the Chairman asks.

“Don’t know,” Gabriel says.

“You don’t know,” the Chairman repeats. The Silverwoods can be so tiresome, especially this one. He takes a deep, sharp, annoyed breath. “Any ideas?”

“Well, I’m guessing that they are in the same place as my brother Christopher,” Gabriel says, whose face grows very dark as he leans in very close to the screen. “You set us up, Mister Magistrate. Those Tromindox knew we were coming. They made it far too easy to find them. And those portals? You can go find your stupid portals yourself. See, I have another job now. My job is to find my family, and get my brother back, before anyone gets any more brilliant ideas. So I’m a little busy. If you want your stuff, you might want to put on your working pants and get out here with some of your henchmen and do something about it yourself.”

“Where is your brother?” the Chairman asks.

“So now you try to give the impression that you have no idea.” Gabriel spits out his words. “You had this plan all worked out, didn’t you. What a nice, convenient way to get your dirty work done, and dispose of some of us Silverwoods while you’re at it. Elegant plan. And I, I should have figured it out. It’s my fault for not figuring it out.”

The Chairman sits very still and says nothing.

“Gabriel, I have no idea what is going on with your brother,” he says, finally.

“That is garbage!” Gabriel yells. “You—people, in your suits and your buildings—you think you can just push a few buttons and everything will be fine. You want to control the world using your little screens. Well I’m afraid that this is reality, and the reality is, I have to go get my brother, find my wife and my children. Now. So, if you’ll excuse me.”

Gabriel drops the device to the ground and crushes it under the heel of his boot.

The Chairman stares blankly as static returns to his screen. He straightens his tie, and turns to go. The doorway, however, is blocked by several Tromindox and a smallish man in a ratty bowler hat.

“Hello, Chairman, or should I say, former Chairman,” Doctor Julius Dinkle says. “I’ve come to relieve you of your duties.”

The bells tinkle on the office door at the EZ Lodge, temporarily drowning out the noise of the television in the back room. The man at the counter puts down his newspaper, takes one look at Kate over his glasses and says, “Ah, Ms. Silverwood. Looks like you’re already checked in.” He reaches out to hand her a room key.

“You must be mistaken,” Kate says. We just got here. We haven’t checked in. We don’t have a room.”

“Well somebody is checked in under the name of Silverwood, then,” says the man. “Family reunion maybe? They said to me, watch for someone of your description. White hair. Two kids. Big ridiculous car with a trailer… ” He leans over to peer at the trailer-less station wagon. “I guess the trailer part wasn’t quite right… ”

“There used to be a trailer. Who told you all this?”

Kate is annoyed to be followed so closely. She is used to moving around on her own, covering her tracks—but she realizes that to make this journey she will need allies. Helen and Henry will need allies, too. That’s something they will have to learn. There are people looking out for them, always, and in return they look out for others. This is the way of the Silverwoods.

“Look lady, I don’t know,” the man at the desk says. “It was some digital woman. Changed her face a dozen times while she was here. Left you this.” He holds out a device with a screen and a button on the side. “Here’s your room key. Number 127.”

Henry and Helen are looking through a huge display of colorful brochures describing all the wonderful attractions in the area—helicopter tours, rides in jeeps, a rock in the shape of an elephant where people have mystical visions…

Kate takes the key, and the device. She motions to Helen and Henry to follow her back out to the car.

“Mom?” Henry says, waving a brochure. “There’s a rock in the shape of an elephant near here.”

“Great. When we get a bunch of time for sightseeing, which will be never, we’ll go see it. Okay?” Kate regrets the snappish voice coming out of her. The map delivered by the motorcyclist, the hotel arrangements being made in advance, the feeling of being followed, and the loss of the trailer carrying practically everything they owned, weighs on her. She feels brittle and angry. But Kate knows none of this is Helen or Henry’s doing; she has once again dragged them into a dangerous unknown. Time to pull it together.

Kate turns to face her kids and takes a deep breath. “Look,” she says, “I’m sorry I snapped at you. Let’s just clean up and get something to eat. Okay?”

“Okay mom,” Helen says. Then she adds, “Sorry about the trailer.” It was spectacular to watch the thing go flying into a canyon, though. Helen’s not going to express this opinion out loud. But it was.

The room is on the ground floor, and the key rattles in the lock as if the mechanism really does nothing at all to secure the door. Kate finally gets the knob to turn and pushes the door open with her foot.

The three of them confront a wall of bricks, painted a sickly white color. The opposite wall, by way of contrast, is covered in dark wood paneling. The beds look like they have invisible boulders weighing them down in the middle. The burnt-orange bedspreads feature fringe around the edges, just reaching the floor and presumably hiding whatever disgusting things might be found underneath. A small reproduction of a painting of a sailboat—interesting choice of imagery in the desert—hangs askew near a brass lamp screwed into the paneling. This room embodies everything that a cheap roadside hotel stands for.

Kate, Helen, Henry and their bags bump through the doorway. The sun is setting, and the neon sign outside changes the color of the curtains every few seconds. Pink, red, blue. Pink again.

“Well, this is certainly a full-service trip; people bringing us maps, checking us into hotels before we get here,” Kate says. She sits down on the edge of a bed, which responds with high-pitched squeaking noises.

“I’m gonna go down and check out the pool,” Helen says. She feels a strong urge to get away from the wood paneling and painted bricks.

“You sure that’s a good idea?” Kate says.

“I’m going,” Helen says. “Henry, you want to come with me?”

Henry is already face down on the orange bedspread, unconscious.

“You keep your eyes open, Helen, and know the route back here,” Kate says. “Don’t speak to anyone. If you see anything unusual, I want you to come back immediately. Do you hear me?”

Helen has already gone out the door.

The pool at night glows with blue underwater lights. Helen can smell chlorine as she pulls open the waist-high gate plastered with familiar signs warning that there’s “No Lifeguard On Duty, All Children Under 14 Must Be Accompanied…” The neon sign out front, which seems to cast light into every corner of the hotel, alters the color of the pool surface every few seconds from pink to blue. Somewhere nearby a soda machine wakes up and starts humming loudly. Helen clicks the gate shut behind her.

She plunks down on a white plastic lounge chair and puts her feet up. Taking a deep breath, she turns her eyes up toward the roof of the motel, wondering how to get up there. Maybe there’s a staircase somewhere. This would be a good moment for some quality roof time. For now, the pool will have to do.

An old gentleman appears at the gate wearing a white terry bathrobe. He smiles at Helen as he enters the pool area and heads to the other end to prepare for a swim. When he removes his robe he reveals that he has the exact same body type as a frog; round in the middle with skinny arms and legs sticking out. He lays down his robe on another white lounge chair, installs a pair of goggles on his face and lowers himself into the water. He then commences very slowly and deliberately swimming back and forth, back and forth, the ripples in the water growing with each lap. The light from the neon sign sparkles now on the surface as he glides along. The water laps up against the sides of the pool.

Eventually the man pauses at the end nearest to Helen, and his head pops up over the edge. Pink neon light illuminates the top of his bald-head.

“Can’t sleep?” he asks.

“I don’t know, I haven’t tried yet,” Helen answers.

The man smiles and nods. “I see,” he says. “Don’t want to see too much of that wood paneling then, I guess? Me neither. ‘Course with eyes closed in slumber you won’t see it anyway, right? It’s the rude awakening—that’s the problem. Good morning Mister Wood Paneling.” He throws up his hands with a splash to show imagined surprise at being confronted with the awful decor.

Helen smiles. “I guess that’s it,” she says. It’s not often she runs into a conversationalist at this time of night. The last bit of sunlight has slipped past the horizon.

The dark, or perhaps the unexpected visitor, makes Helen feel like she ought to go back to the room. Maybe it was her mother’s reluctance to have her out here in the first place. Whatever the reason, Helen has seen enough of the pool for now.

“Well, I’ve got to go,” Helen says. “Have a nice rest of your swim.”

“Thanks,” says the old man. He turns to push off for another lap, but stops. “And, have a safe trip,” he adds. “You seem like a young person with a lot on her mind.”

Safe trip? “Okay,” Helen says. “You travel safely too.”

“Thanks,” the man says, “And remember: just because you can, doesn’t mean you should.”

Helen looks confused. “What?”

“It’s a little bit of wisdom I like to share with young people,” the man says. “I’m old, you’re young, at my stage of life I ought to share my hard-won wisdom, wouldn’t you agree? I’ve had a lot of experiences, learned a lot of things the hard way. And that little nugget, that’s a keeper. ‘Just because you can, doesn’t mean you should.’ It’s a good old standby, that one.”

“Um, okay,” Helen nods. “Thanks. Really.”

“No problem,” the old man says with a smile. He pushes off the side of the pool for his next lap. She can hear him paddling along behind her as she leaves the pool area and the gate clicks shut. The soda machine has turned off and now it’s very still outside. The sky has turned black, and stars pop out like pin pricks.

Helen walks back into room 127 just in time to hear these exact words:

“Oh, and get rid of that ridiculous station wagon. Could you possibly make yourself any easier to spot? You can probably see that thing from space.”

Kate stares at the screen on the device in her hand. That car has been with the family for, well, ever since Kate and Gabriel came forward in time with Helen. Fourteen years ago.

As if reading Kate’s thoughts, the voice adds: “If you want to finally get your family all in one place, Kate, you’ll lose that car and quick, regardless of any sentimental feelings you might have. Right now things are going in the wrong direction and your extreme visibility is not helping any.”

“Fine, I’ll get rid of the car,” Kate says. “It’s not like we need it to pull the stupid trailer now, anyway. You’d need a crane for that.”

“We’ll deal with the trailer at a later time, Kate. I’m terribly sorry about that mishap. By the way, you should know that the Chairman sends his regards. He was responsible for the delivery you received on the road. At my request, of course.”

“The Chairman sent that creep after us? The one with the motorcycle? The one that left the portal on my car’s hood?” Kate asks.

“Yes, that was from the Chairman. He’s…interested. Trying to keep tabs on you. I hear they lost a bunch of portals, and The Book of the Future, too. There was some sort of mishap between a Council member—Dinkle, I think his name is—and a very assertive Tromindox. So the Chairman is meddling even more than usual. He is looking in on things.”

“The last thing I need is any kind of involvement with the Council,” Kate says.

The device lets out an awful static noise and the signal starts to break up. “Kate,” the voice says in between noises, “you need to get here as soon as you can. We need you. I’m trying to maintain order until you can get here, but things are—getting worse. Progressing, and not in a good direction. Please hurry.”

“Okay, we’ll do our best,” Kate says. “First thing we do is, we’ll get a faster car.” She smiles. But the screen has gone blank. Channel closed.

“Rosie, you didn’t eat your dinner.”

“I’m not hungry.”

Rosie’s mom heaves a sigh and looks down at her daughter, who is lying stomach-down on the floor. Rosie is situated in front of the television, paper strewn in an arc on the floor around her. A tiny cat creeps toward her on one side, crunching paper under its paws. Rosie’s dark, curly hair tumbles into her face. She tucks it behind an ear.

It’s a hot evening in the city, so the window of their small apartment stands wide open to let in as much air—and street noise—as possible.

On each sheet of paper Rosie has drawn a nearly identical baseball field, with players stationed at the various bases and in the outfield and a scoreboard stretching across the background.

Rosie draws the center fielder, arms up above his head, the ball descending into his glove. The announcer on the television says, “And he flies out to center field… ”

Next she draws another player sliding into second, and a couple of minutes later the announcer says, “And, he’s stolen second! A good solid throw from the catcher but not in time.”

Rosie’s drawing session proceeds in this way for another inning or so, as she practices her skills. She completes a drawing of an ad for the all-new redesigned convertible car two minutes before it airs. She sketches out the wild pattern and bold stripe on the shirt and tie worn by the announcer who will come on for the post-game show. The baseball game concludes, the shirt and tie appear on the screen as if on cue.

Later that night, long after the television has been shut off and everyone has gone to bed, Rosie draws another picture in her room. In this one, a single figure stands knee-deep in the waters of a lake. Trees line the banks and ripples radiate out around this person’s knees. It’s a woman, with white-blonde hair and wearing a black coat. Rosie ponders it after she finishes, unsure what to make of it. Then it hits her, the figure in her drawing looks just like Henry’s mom. Why would Mrs. Silverwood going swimming come to mind? What does that mean?

Rosie frowns. She stacks up her drawings at the foot of her bed and crawls under her covers. Tomorrow she will flip over all of tonight’s drawings and draw on the backs of the sheets, in order to save paper.

Across the street, notes and photographs of Rosie’s activities this evening will be transmitted to the Council and placed in the archives, as is the standard procedure with every Guild member in the tracking system.

Daniel Brush looks up just in time to see a hand shoot forward, grab the front of his shirt and shove him backwards into a bookshelf. His broom clatters to the floor.

His visitor is very large, and clothed in dark robes. Daniel can’t make out many details; the dirty windows only let in weak early evening light. He really must wash those sometime soon. Perhaps he will do that next, after he’s removed the top layer of dust from everything in the store. And, after he has escaped his assailant.

“I’m looking for a book,” the figure says.

“Well, you’ve come to the right place,” Daniel offers lamely. His shirt collar is pulled tight around his neck.

The visitor lets go of its grip on Daniel and straightens a bit. It must be seven feet tall. It turns and takes in the disorganized mess.

“Looks like you have some work to do here,” the visitor says.

“Thanks, I knew that,” Daniel says, straightening his shirt. “The owner kind of left suddenly.”

“So, you’re not the owner?” It runs a bony finger across the dusty cover of a book on the table, revealing a streak of colored leather under the dust.

“Nope. But feel free to look around.” Since you’re going to anyway, Daniel adds silently.

The visitor turns away and moves down the first aisle. For such a big, mangy-looking thing, it seems to move gracefully, almost flowing amongst the shelves and stacks. “It had better be here; he said it would be here… ” it mutters as it goes.

Daniel picks up his broom and does a feeble impression of sweeping while keeping a close watch on his customer. He vaguely remembers a person with the same dark, disheveled appearance visiting the store when he was much younger, a large individual dressed in dark robes and sporting a bad attitude. Daniel remembers how agitated his uncle was at the time of the visit, but Daniel was a kid so nobody took the time to explain anything to him. Daniel resolves that if he ever has kids, he will explain more to them about what’s going on so they’ll have the knowledge to deal with moments like this one.

Daniel’s musings are interrupted by a loud, “Mrrrrrowrrrrrrr,” sound from the back of the store. He leans the broom against the front counter and tiptoes to the end of the aisle, leaning forward and peering toward the back of the store.

“Now kitty, just move for a minute,” the visitor says.

“Rrrrrrrrrrr,” comes the deep, threatening reply.

From his spot at the end of the aisle, all Daniel can make out are the outline of his visitor, and the unmistakable silhouette of a cat. Then something odd happens. A horrible noise comes from someone, or maybe both of them, and it seems that the two shadows deform into blobs waving tentacle-like arms. The dark shapes merge as the two lock in battle, sending books tumbling onto the floor. Great. More mess to clean up.

Whatever this altercation is about, Daniel isn’t going to have the store made even more difficult to organize than it already is. So he takes a deep breath, and walks into the aisle to confront… whatever is going on in the store.

The sun has reached a low angle and Daniel has to squint in the glare coming from the tiny window at the back of the store. The two shapes separate, and by the time Daniel’s eyes adjust, his visitor is standing across from the cat calmly as if nothing has happened. The cat has settled back down atop a stack of books.

“Can you move your cat?” the visitor asks.

Daniel didn’t know he had a cat.

“Um, okay,” Daniel says. He shuffles down the aisle, the cat watching him closely with almond-shaped eyes. Where did the cat come from? Do all bookstores have cats? Is this a rule?

“MrrrRrwrrrrmmmmmrrrr,” the cat says.

“Hi kitty,” Daniel says. He reaches forward to pick it up, but the cat will not be relocated. He lifts up on the cat’s body, but it digs its claws into the heavy volume beneath it so the whole thing, cat and book, lift up together. It’s as if this particular book comes with a built-in cat. Daniel puts them both back down, steps back and puts his hand up to his chin.

“I don’t think the cat wants to move, right now,” Daniel says.

The giant visitor glowers down at its furry adversary. On closer inspection, Daniel can see that this—person—has the face of a rather sickly vampire. Sunken grey skin, nasty black robes.

The visitor turns, abruptly, and heads toward the front door. As it whisks away down the aisle, it mutters, “I’ll be back, cat.”

Daniel watches his customer leave. The bell tinkles on the door. He turns back around to get a better look at the cat that he didn’t know he had.

“So, what was that?” Daniel says to the cat. “You, mister cat, have an attitude problem.”

The cat looks at him with minimal interest. It’s a beefy animal, orange with a little bit of white striping and a round, resolute face. Its tail flicks.

“What is that book you’re so attached to, anyway?” Daniel leans forward and puts out his hand. The cat hisses.

“Cool it, I’m not gonna take it, I just want to see… ”

The cat hisses again and lashes out with its claws, just missing Daniel’s face as he takes evasive action. However, he does manage a brief glimpse of the book’s spine. On it are printed heavy gold letters: REGRETS.

“Fine,” Daniel says as he returns to the front of the store to sweep some more. Aren’t bookstore cats supposed to be mellow and sleep all day in the window while customers tell them how adorable they are?

Daniel picks up his broom and resumes the task of cleaning up the bookstore. The cat stays put atop its book.

RECORDING

Hi dad, it’s Helen again.

You know how I said, when we move the dreams stop for a while? Or I guess I should say, the recurring visits, since I’ve now learned that they aren’t dreams at all. I figure it’s because people have to find me again. Get the word out—you know, ‘that Silverwood girl with the healing blood is living on Second Street now.’ Something like that.

Well now I’m having actual sleeping dreams, and they are—shall we say—different.

In these dreams I’m walking on a lonely road out in the middle of nowhere, no trees or anything. And then there’s this old farmhouse. Really old—falling apart at the seams old. I turn off the road and I walk up a dirt path to the front door. There’s a weird gurgling sound all around me, like I’m in a big fishbowl.

When I go to open the door, the knob comes off in my hand. And then the knob floats away. I’m not kidding. There’s still that gurgling sound in my ears. The house has a big porch that wraps all the way around, and I run along it and look in each window.

Inside every room I see a Tromindox, but I can’t get into the house to save them. I pull on the windows, but they won’t open. The Tromindox don’t seem to know I’m there. I try pounding on the window, but I can’t make any sound. I can’t even hit the glass hard enough to make an impact. It’s like I’m stuck in slow motion. I can still hear the gurgling.

The next thing that happens, it’s like I get pulled away. I feel like someone is grabbing the back of my shirt and pulling me out off the porch and into the air. I flail and kick my legs but I just get farther and farther away from the farmhouse. I watch it get smaller as I lift up into the air. I try to scream, but nothing comes out. Pretty soon the house is tiny. And then, I wake up.

It reminds me of those dreams kids have, where they are in school but they can’t find their locker or books or class and they are in their pajamas in the middle of the hall. One of my teachers told me those are anxiety dreams. Maybe this is one of those—an anxiety dream.

I wonder if my dreams will change again when we get to Brokeneck. I suppose now that the Tromindox who still have people inside can just visit me during waking hours… I mean, I’m old enough to handle it, healing them, and I don’t need to be asleep any more.

Mom, on the other hand, she’s still getting assignments. We’ll be in some hotel, in the middle of nowhere, and she’ll receive a message and go out. She says she has to, to pay the bills so we can buy food. Nobody’s going to do that for us, she says. We have to do the best we can with what we’ve got.

I asked mom, what if I went out with her on her assignments, and tried to heal the monsters before she killed them off—just in case. Maybe on occasion there’s still a person inside. Let’s just say the conversation didn’t go very well. I guess I had that coming. But then she said, the ones she hunts, they’re too far gone. She says she can tell, they have a particular signature that she can read. I can’t heal them, can’t get anyone out of there any more. The only thing left to do is dissolve them. She says at that point, my blood just turns them to dust.

Now that’s strange, the notion that my blood would turn someone to dust. I thought it was supposed to heal people. So is it true that if someone is too far gone, completely Tromindox, that my blood destroys them? I just can’t help thinking, what if there is someone in there? Even just a tiny bit of them? Can they look out through the Tromindox eyes and see my mom? Can they see me?

If you were here, I could ask you these questions. Instead, I’ll just try to get some actual sleep.

END RECORDING

She has not had anything to eat for over a month. Her feet drag along the ground, her head hangs downward in despair. She must use all of her remaining energy to maintain even a somewhat human shape now, so when she gets a chance she slinks behind a dumpster and allows herself to shift back into an exhausted heap of Tromindox claws and tentacles.

The huge, rolling doors on the loading docks sit silent and shut tight, cold and grey and uninterested. She surveys the landscape. Warehouses, trucks, paper blowing around, anything living locked safely behind those rectangular doors. She slides down to the ground in the shadow of a heap of garbage, feeling like garbage herself.

Why did she let the others talk her into coming to this awful time and place. “There will be lots of prey,” they said. Everywhere you look, prey. An all you can eat buffet.

Well, it’s not that simple. Things here in the future move far too fast. They have vehicles that run you down no matter which way you turn. They have flashing lights that make no sense. Everyone here seems to be in a hurry.

She was already starving when she got here, far from her full strength. But keeping up with all these people, zooming around in these vehicles and jabbering into devices they hold up to their heads, exhausts her. She should have used some time to learn their ways. But she’s had no time, and nothing to eat. Starvation turns time into the enemy.

Maybe the others sent her here just to get her out of the way, to get rid of her.

She hears a clicking sound in the distance. It sounds like the footsteps of someone wearing dress shoes. She leans forward and peeks around the dumpster. The shoes belong to a beefy man, in a suit, mobile phone clamped to his head. Maybe he is an executive, leaving the office late after a long day. He strides toward the only car left on the street, a sleek black sedan. Can she get to the car before he does?

The wide street offers no cover, so she must rely on stealth and timing. She pulls herself together and assumes the form of a hunched old homeless woman in black robes. This form is not too difficult, since she’s stooping over a lot these days anyway.

She steers clear of the streetlights, pressing up against the wall and moving alongside him on her side as he walks along across the street. She keeps back just far enough to stay out of his vision. Her quarry barks into his phone, and continues barking as he tucks it under his ample chin to fumble through his pockets for his car keys.

When he finally locates the keys in his pants pocket and reaches for the car door, he drops his phone onto the asphalt. Letting out a few curse words, he bends down with some effort to retrieve it.

When he stands back up, that’s when she shoots the venom straight into his sizeable abdomen.

He stares at her in disbelief, his beady eyes bugging out of his face. He is the CEO of a multinational corporation. He just closed a huge deal. He is not a victim.

He tries to pull away from her, but the barbs on her tentacle hold him in place. His legs go numb and he sinks to his knees, but his look is one of defiance, not fear. Does this thing know who I am?

The venom begins to dissolve his body, and at long last she can feel new energy pouring into her. She reels him in, but he continues to struggle. In her weakened state, she cannot break him down all at once. The tug of war continues for an hour or more, there under the streetlight next to the shiny black sedan. A big personality like this one will not go quietly. He is used to winning.

Once she takes in enough fuel to sustain herself, she begins feeding off the mind of this enormous ego. Her head spins with business deals, spreadsheets, first-class flights, fancy shoes and shiny cars.

Eventually the man disappears physically, but his identity remains intact. She has the strength now to seek shelter, but this battle could still go either way. For hours or even days the fight will rage on. Sometimes her face will be her face, sometimes his. Eventually one of them will win out, but until then the two of them will lurch forward together, a weird hybrid creature roaming the streets. Most likely, she will win.

The enormous sign at the side of the road reads “Chester Motors” in neon block letters, with a smaller line underneath in script: “Best deals in the desert.”

A long row of used cars stares out at the interstate, windows stuffed with giant orange numbers and letters describing irresistible deals: Clean. Runs great. Like new. The dry wind whips around between vehicles, stirring up dust devils amongst the wheels.

“What are we looking for?” Helen asks.

“Something different from the station wagon, for sure—maybe with a little speed,” says her mom.

“A motorcycle?” Henry asks, excitedly.

“Henry, how are all three of us, plus Clarence, supposed to get around on a motorcycle?” Helen says.

“I dunno, maybe add a sidecar?” Henry looks down.

Chester, the man whose name is emblazoned on the sign, ambles out of the slant-roofed sales building, rubbing his thick hands together. He takes a sideways glance at the vintage station wagon. That thing, he could sell. That is a collector’s item. Most trades he gets are on their last legs, only good for scrap. Fine with him. Scrap sells well. But this one is in good shape, vintage. Wonder why they don’t want it any more?

“How are you ladies today? And you, sir?” Chester ruffles Henry’s hair. Oh great, one of those grown-ups who tries to make friends with kids by calling them things like ‘sir’ and ruffling their hair.

“We’re good,” Kate says. “Say, what have you got in a mobile home?”

Ah, looking to trade up. This could be lucrative. Chester takes a glance at Kate’s boots. Nice footwear indicates she’s probably good for it. Of course, all the details will come out in the background check.

“Right over here, ma’am,” Chester says. “I keep our selection by the side of the building, there. Finest motor homes around.”

“You two want to take a look, too?” Kate says to the kids.

“Nah, we’ll hang with Clarence,” Helen says. “C’mon, puppy dog.”

Clarence unloads himself from the back seat of the station wagon and ambles over to the kids. Ah, a dog, notes Chester. Probably have to clean that thing before I can sell it. Take that out of the trade-in price.

Kate and Chester head off to look over a sorry-looking mobile home with decals peeling from the sides and clear signs of rust. The kids and dog take off in the opposite direction, into the lot. Henry stops in his tracks to admire a motorcycle, fitted with a sidecar even. Black, lots of chrome. Just like the one he drew yesterday. Why did he see a motorcycle, and draw a motorcycle, if it’s not what they’re buying? It makes no sense. There it is, right in front of him. Of course, such a thing for three people and a large dog also makes no sense. So maybe Henry was having an off day or just drawing from his own imagination for once.

“Let’s hurry, Henry. Who knows how much time we have,” Helen says, running her hand along the sides of the automobiles and peering into the windows. The lot consists of two long, sad, dusty rows of rejected automobiles. Got to find one with no stick shift, something with some power…

Then Helen sees it. Looks like a 1972 Ford Maverick. Sky blue. Two-door coupe. Nice tires. Not very big, but with the trailer gone they don’t need to tow anything, and Henry and Clarence can occupy the whole back seat. That car will have some speed.

“Keep an eye out, Henry,” Helen says, ambling over to her target. Clarence goes with her. He has opinions about cars, too, being a dog and all. This one looks pretty good to him.

Before Henry has begun to survey their situation, Helen already has the door open and has slid into the driver’s seat. She runs her hands along the steering wheel and dashboard. This engine will make some noise when she starts it. She reaches down and hacks open the anti-theft device. Clarence stands outside the door, waiting.

“Okay dog, this is the one. Get in.”

Clarence climbs across Helen’s lap and clambers over into the back seat. He sits up and looks out the rear window. His fuzzy tail wags back and forth.

Henry, seeing the dog’s face appear in the rear window, knows that it is time to move. He makes a low whistling sound. No response. Mom and Chester seem to be around the corner of the building, unable to hear him. He turns and runs down the aisle of cars, just in time to hear the Maverick’s engine roar as Helen fires the thing up. Where is that reverse gear again? She’s seen her mom do this so many times. She’s even tried it herself before. But this time, she can’t crash or kill the engine.

The coupe stirs up a storm of dust as it rumbles down the aisle. Henry breaks into a jog next to it, pulls the chrome handle to open the passenger door, and jumps in.

“‘Scuse me, Clarence,” Henry says as he crawls over into the back of the car. Clarence doesn’t move so Henry stuffs himself into one side.

Kate, who now knows more about the ‘freewheeling mobile home lifestyle’ than she ever wanted to, appears around the corner of the building and breaks into a full run. Helen turns and steers toward the exit, taking one last glance at the station wagon. In a split second Kate comes alongside, tossing her duffle bag through the door and swinging into the passenger seat.

Chester stands and watches his car exit the lot, dumbfounded. He will most certainly be demanding a refund on those anti-theft devices. The face of the dog in the back window shrinks until the whole car is just a blue dot on the interstate.

The Country Squire wagon will leave a hefty crater in front of Chester Motors when it explodes. Chester will not file a police report. Instead he will transform the crater into a tourist attraction, claiming that a spaceship crash-landed in that very spot, and selling bits of the melted station wagon as authentic pieces of the ill-fated saucer.

Three days after the explosion, a man dressed entirely in black will appear and buy the motorcycle with the sidecar.

“Howdy, kitty.”

Daniel Brush stands, arms crossed, pondering the cat parked atop the stack of books in his uncle’s shop. The cat looks back. They stay this way for a good while, sizing each other up.

“Hey, now that the creepy guy is gone, I was wondering if you’d let me get a look at that book you’re so attached to there,” Daniel says.

Amazingly, the cat gets up, stretches its back, and steps down. It doesn’t go far, though. It hunkers down right next to the volume and watches Daniel.

Daniel waits a moment to be sure he won’t get shredded. “I’ll put it back, I promise. Right where you kept it.” He reaches out, slowly, careful to keep clear of his feline friend, and lifts the book off the table. The leather cover gives off dust and fragments that flicker in the sunlight from the window. The thick embossed letters on the front spell, REGRETS.

“Regrets, huh? Sounds uplifting.” He flips it open.

The pages, made of yellow parchment and brownish around the edges, appear to be blank.

Daniel turns page after page but he sees no words, no pictures, nothing. As he looks through the volume, though, he thinks he hears a sound. A rustling, or maybe a distant howling. He looks toward the front of the shop for some source, but no one appears. No tinkle of the bell. He turns back to the book and the sounds continue. He can’t quite place it. It’s a little like the sound of faraway traffic in a busy city.

Each time he comes closer to the book, the sound gets louder. Where is this weird noise coming from? He leans down, bringing his ear almost in contact with the page. Is it a trick of the wind, or an echo?

Daniel turns another page, and the sounds grow louder. He turns more pages, and things quiet down. Noises are coming and going as he flips through the book. Now he holds very still. Why can’t he pinpoint that sound?

The cat stares at him.

Faint wails. Or moans. Such sad sounds.

Daniel looks up at the cat. “Are those sounds coming from the book? Are they the sounds of regrets? Are there people’s regrets in here? People’s pasts?”

The cat gives away nothing.

Daniel closes the book, and the sounds subside.

“That’s it, isn’t it? The Book of Regrets. And are you the self-appointed protector of this thing?” He places it back where it was, and the cat retakes its position on top. “It certainly isn’t your average hardback.”

“That,” a voice says behind him, “is a corner piece of a very large and complicated puzzle.”

Daniel spins around, knocking books off the shelf behind him. At least when the books land on the floor they don’t raise a huge cloud of dust. Daniel’s meager attempts at cleaning are starting to pay off.

Eleanor Woods, proprietress of the Brokeneck Hotel, stands at the center of the aisle.

Daniel first knew Mrs. Woods when he was a little boy visiting his uncle. She was the kindly older lady who ran the hotel, but she had the sort of demeanor that made you think the hotel really wasn’t the whole story. She gave off a vibe like she ran some secret spy operation out of the back rooms or something. Daniel always figured he just added these details from his imagination, being a creative young kid. Now that he’s grown, Mrs. Woods is about half Daniel’s size—probably a third of the size of that other fellow who came in.

Mrs. Woods leans to one side and peers around Daniel. “Hello Bertrand,” Mrs. Woods says to the cat. The cat does not move.

“What kind of puzzle?” Daniel asks.

“That book is a piece of a great machine,” Mrs. Woods explains. “An ancient machine. Unfortunately, it has gotten separated from the other parts. Sometimes when something is very powerful, it is also dangerous. To avert the danger, people take the machine apart so it can’t work any more. This,” she gestures toward the book on the table, “is a part of that sort of machine.”

“Okay,” Daniel says, furrowing his brow and looking at Bertrand. Bertrand? What a dumb name for a cat.

“I saw you had a visitor earlier,” Mrs. Woods says. “A large fellow, not terribly attractive. He came in here after Posey made her rounds and got her video of me through your window. Am I correct?”

Man, small town life is weird. Everybody knows everything about each other. “Yeah, that’s right,” Daniel says. “You had a visitor too, it looked like.”

“I did have a visitor, which is why I came to see you,” Mrs. Woods says. “Our two visits are related. You see, your fellow was after something, and mine gave me something to make sure that he doesn’t get it.” She holds out her hand so Daniel can see the portal.

“What’s that?” Daniel asks.

“Another piece of the machine,” Mrs. Woods says. “With this, I can create an area—about the size of my hotel—where folks like that ugly character you encountered can’t go.”

She hands the object to Daniel, who turns it over a few times and looks through the hole in the middle.

“It’s called a portal,” Mrs. Woods explains. “It’s a carrier of information, and a conduit through space and time. This particular one is calibrated in a special way. I had to make special arrangements to have it brought here. There’s no way in tarnation I could have fixed up one of these myself.”

“I had one of these when I was a kid,” Daniel says. The look of the coin, with the square hole and swirling shape on one side, brings back a flood of memories; playing out behind the bookstore, his uncle letting him pick one of these out of the cash register, his aunt admonishing him to be careful with it, the grown-ups discussing was it proper for a child to play with such things, wondering aloud what might happen if it still had information on it…

“Piece of the puzzle, huh?” Daniel says, handing the portal back to Mrs. Woods.

“Yes, I… ”

Bertrand lets out a howl as a new, huge creature storms into the store, sending stacks of books crashing everywhere. The cat sinks its claws into the cover of The Book of Regrets and arches his back, wailing.

Daniel wheels around just in time to receive a blow to the side of his head, sending him sideways into a bookshelf with a crash.

“Aw man!” Daniel yells, clutching at his skull. “Another one. Why do these people have to attack you right when they come in? Can’t we talk first?”

“Get your stupid cat out of the way. That book is ours and we will have it!”The Tromindox bellows.

“What, did your friend send you to finish the job?” Daniel says. He doesn’t see Mrs. Woods any more. Where is she, and why did she disappear? Did this creature scare her off?

“Your previous visitor is an idiot. I never should have relied on him. Now, the book.” It moves toward the volume in question. Bertrand emits a long, serious, low growling sound.

“Daniel, this way!” Mrs. Woods calls from the front door. How did she get there? Daniel scoops up the book and the cat in one motion, fakes in one direction (it turns out soccer practice was good for something) and then leaps sideways to the next aisle. He takes off in a sprint toward the front of the shop.

The Tromindox attempts to grab Daniel, jabbing its claws in between the shelves. For once the clutter gives Daniel an advantage. He flails his free arm and hurls stacks of books and a table to the floor behind him. The Tromindox, momentarily tangled in the mess strewn in its path, roars in anger.

The dirt roadway between the bookstore and the front porch of the Brokeneck Hotel stretches out in front of Daniel; no choice now but to take off in a full run. He hurdles the railing in front of the store and from there, keeps his feet pumping with his arms still tightly wrapped around the book and the cat. Mrs. Woods has somehow reached the hotel porch before him and yells back at him like she is cheering at a track meet: “Come on Daniel! You can do it!” The liquid Tromindox slithers out the door and across the dirt behind him.

How did Mrs. Woods get over there so quickly? That lady is tricky.

Daniel reaches the porch and leaps up the steps, but a Tromindox tentacle catches him around his ankle and yanks him down to the ground. He lands hard, his chest hitting the wood and the book flying out in front of him and landing about ten feet away. The cat’s trajectory takes it in another direction and it alights on its feet, hissing.

Daniel hears a whirring sound, then a click, and looks up to see Mrs. Woods, standing defiantly in the hotel entrance, holding a small device. In an instant she shoves the portal into the side of it, and when she does, the Tromindox lets out a horrible howl. Several of its tentacles fall off and seem to boil away in the dust. It stumbles backward.

And then, the Tromindox melts.

As the creature sinks to the ground into a thick glob of black oily goo, human faces appear; popping out here and there, remnants of past victims. Identities absorbed. These are just echoes: other people’s lives flashing before Daniel’s eyes. The Tromindox shrinks and evaporates, smaller and smaller until it leaves only a damp bit of gravel on the ground.

“Bugger off, you vile creature!” Mrs. Woods yells at the smear. “This here hotel is now a field which none of you beasts may enter. Too bad you are in no shape to go inform your friends.”

Daniel scrambles backward like a crab up the hotel steps, never taking his eyes off the spot where the creature dissolved.

“What, what did you do?” he asks.

“Disruption field,” Mrs. Woods says. “Those Tromindox, they’re shape shifters, see. Changing around all the time. So their molecules don’t stay together as well as yours and mine. There’s more space between them. If you activate a field at the right frequency, you can blow them up. They fall apart at the molecular level.”

Mrs. Woods smooths her apron and looks up the street. “I’m not pleased that I was forced to activate it so soon. I had hoped to wait longer. My guests haven’t even arrived yet.”

Daniel sits in the bright front window of the Brokeneck Hotel, flipping pages in The Book of Regrets. The sun has moved down a bit now, no longer blasting through the glass. An hour ago it would have been too stifling hot to sit here.

But now, it’s cooled off. Daniel turns the crinkly pages, one at a time, and listens.

The regrets started out unintelligible. Moans, sighs, sounds of longing, a little bit of anger, a lot of sadness. But the longer Daniel listens, the more he feels like he can understand a word or two here and there. It’s as if the sounds get a tiny bit clearer with each turn of the page.

And then, he hears it. Clearly, this time. It’s the unmistakable noise of a playground, kids running and yelling. He can hear voices, taunting. They sound mean. Mean laughter. And then it hits him.

He is hearing a day when he was nine years old, in school. A group of boys had surrounded a girl. What was her name?

“Lucy! Lucy Goosey!” the book says, clear as day.

Lucy.

“Lucy Goosey, why don’t you go jump off a cliff, Lucy? Nobody wants to see your face.”

“Lucy, Lucy, loser Lucy… ”

It goes on like this. Daniel finds himself there, every detail coming back to him now. How Lucy endured the taunts. How those boys never let up. How she walked home, feet moving fast, head down, her dress dirty and her braids lopsided.

How Daniel saw the whole thing, and did nothing. Just shuffled his sneakers in the dirt, soles making a crunching sound. Fingers looped in the chain link fence. Turning, to walk home alone. If he said anything, tried to make them stop, he endured a beating. He remembers the feeling of wet blood on the back of his head. Scraped up elbows where he went down. He knew what to expect.

Daniel was Lucy’s only friend in school.

He watched as they ran after her, still yelling. Sometimes tripping her. Sometimes knocking her books out of her hand. Lucy was their favorite target, but Daniel knew it could just as easily have been him.

The girls were even worse.

They never said anything to Lucy’s face, of course. It was all rolled eyes and little looks in the classroom, sitting around the lunch table making up poems about Lucy the Loser, always working in something about her being fat, or ugly, or worse. The girls could be very, very creative in their cruelty.

They could compare Lucy to any animal, maybe a hippo, or a cow, anything, even make it rhyme or set it to music. Daniel remembers it all.

And, he remembers the two of them, friends, hiking through the woods, looking for snakes or just hanging around together. Watching TV. Riding bikes. Finding deer bones and taking them home to write labels on them with a marker.

But mostly Daniel remembers that feeling of watching through the fence. Shuffling his feet. And doing nothing.

He still gets a knot in his stomach whenever he thinks of Lucy. He never saw her after she moved away. But that knot in his stomach, that sticks. So does the sound of his rushing heartbeat in his ears, thumping loudly.

The thing is, there was absolutely nothing remarkable about Lucy. She didn’t resemble a hippo, or a cow. She just happened to be the chosen one, picked out for torment. It was the lottery of childhood. A place for kids to put all their aggression, all those mean feelings they are not supposed to have because the grown-ups say such feelings are bad. But it’s there, under the surface. Anger, meanness, aggression. It’s part of human nature. You can’t just pretend it’s not there. It’s going to come out someplace.

At Daniel’s school, the outlet was Lucy.

“I would not spend too much time flipping through that book, if I were you,” Mrs. Woods says, appearing at Daniel’s elbow. Daniel starts, and instinctively closes the book with a thud. He feels a flood of relief as the dull pain of the memory subsides.

“That book can get you in trouble, you know. It’s dangerous.”

“You’re probably right,” Daniel says. He straightens. “So, what now?”

“You will need to stay here in the hotel,” says Mrs. Woods. “You’re on the radar, now. They know who you are, and they will try to get you to give up the book.” She slides The Book of Regrets off the table and installs it in a massive wooden cabinet, closing the glass doors tightly.

“And who are they, exactly?” Daniel asks.

“The Tromindox,” Mrs. Woods says. “Ancient creatures. Human hunters. Brilliant. Manipulative. They have been on Earth far longer than people have. If you are not careful, they will outsmart you—and then they will eat you.”

“Okay, great,” says Daniel. He looks out the window across the street at the bookstore. A feeling of dread comes over him, as if he’s just crossed some invisible line of no return. A line that melts Tromindox, apparently.

“I’ve got some people arriving, soon,” Mrs. Woods says. “People who can help us fight back. They are on their way right now. If I can just get them here in one piece… ”

“People?” says Daniel. “Like that fellow who visited you? With the interesting hat? That sort of people?”

“Kind of,” Mrs. Woods says. “Agents. Well, ex-agents. Actually, a bounty hunter. And her two children.”

Daniel looks skeptical.

“The best bounty hunter you’ll ever see, mind you,” Mrs. Woods adds. “She can take out a Tromindox before you even know it’s there. Just the sort of person we need here. And now. We really do need her. I just hope they don’t get run off the road trying to get here.”

Why do we need a bounty hunter in Brokeneck? “Is someone after them?”

“A bounty hunter always has someone after her,” Mrs. Woods says. “She’s not too popular with the Tromindox, as you can imagine. If they get a good shot at her, they’ll take it. But she’s none too loved by the Council, either. Oh, they have differing opinions, but see, a while back, she and her husband, they did some unconventional things to protect their family. Interesting story, that.”

“Protecting your family doesn’t seem too unconventional,” Daniel says.

“Yes but this family, there are those, like some in the Council, who would like to get rid of them. And they darn near did it, too, a while back.” Mrs. Woods leans in as if to relate an important secret that no one must hear.

Daniel listens carefully, but this story seems jumbled. Tromindox? Council? He has never heard of any of these things. It’s as if memories from his childhood have come to life and become much—bigger. He feels like he just learned that the monsters under his bed were real. And now they don’t stay under the bed anymore.

Mrs. Woods goes on with her story, enjoying the retelling. “They were so close, and then ol’ Kate and Gabriel, they pulled a fast one.” Mrs. Woods smiles. “They sure did. Got away at the very last second. With their daughter, who was just a newborn baby at the time. Oh, it was a close one. But they got away. You know,” Mrs. Woods gestures toward the cabinet, “they got away using the other book, the companion volume to that one.”

“There’s another one of those?” asks Daniel. Bertrand the cat wanders in, bumps into their legs and curls up on the floor in front of the cabinet. He seems satisfied that The Book of Regrets is in good hands now.

“The Book of the Future,” Mrs. Woods says. “Long ago, before we began using the portals, the books carried in their pages the imprint of time. They still do today. They are a record, but they are also a passageway. So you can imagine why the Tromindox are so interested in them.

“When the baby was born, the Tromindox saw an opportunity to cut off the bloodline of the Silverwood clan before she could grow up. But Kate and Gabriel, and their baby, they managed to escape just in time. They took a great leap forward, they did. Oh, it was masterful.” Mrs. Woods beams like a proud aunt. “They are very creative people.”

“Where are they, now?” Daniel asks. The pieces of the story are still jumbled in his mind. He decides it’s best to let Mrs. Woods enjoy recounting her tale.

“Well Kate, she and her kids are on the road to Brokeneck right this minute. I do hope they got rid of that clunker of a car they were driving. That thing was a dead giveaway. Gabriel, well, he’s had a lot of troubles. For a long time nobody was quite sure where he was. I received a communication that he is out of prison, though. So my bet is that he’s with his brother Christopher.”

“Sounds like a fun family,” Daniel says.

“They’re all we’ve got, Daniel, all we have to defend ourselves. I just hope they get here in time,” Mrs. Woods says.

The sun has dropped behind the bookstore, the shadows of the buildings and trees lengthening until they reach all the way across the street.

“Where are we going?”

“Ah, so you are still there,” the Tromindox says.

“Yeah, I’m still here. I’m not going anywhere. Not until I blast you to bits first,” Christopher says.

“Alright, go ahead and try, I’ve heard that threat many times before, puny human.”

Sometimes Christopher can see what’s going on around him, other times everything is blurry and dark. Sometimes he can hear, too. Always, he can hear his own thoughts—and so can the Tromindox. Christopher still has a chance to emerge from his predatory host, if he can just hold on long enough. If he could find that vial of blood… he can’t fight physically right now. He has to save his energy.

“Where are we going?” he asks again.

“The future,” says the Tromindox. “To a very special place that belongs to us. None of you humans even know it’s there. And do you want to know the best part?”

“What’s the best part?” Christopher asks.

“Our prey comes to us.”

“To your special secret location? How does that work?” Christopher’s mind hurts.

Several Tromindox gather in a circle, each holding a portal.

“We’re going, now,” the Tromindox says.

“What do you lure your prey with? How do you get them to come to you?” Christopher says again. He must stay focused and conscious.

“We lure them with whatever they want,” says the Tromindox. “Whatever it is the humans want more than anything else, they believe they will find.”

“They will find it in this place where we are going,” says Christopher.

“That’s precisely right,” the Tromindox answers.

“How do you convince the humans that they will find the one thing that they want more than anything?” Christopher asks.

“We don’t have to,” the Tromindox says.

Christopher’s surroundings seem to come apart. The Tromindox must have activated their portals. The group comes unstuck in time.

“You see,” the Tromindox continues, “humans are all looking for something. They are never satisfied with what they have.”

Christopher has the sensation of flying through a very long tunnel at an extreme rate of speed. The sides of the tunnel blur and stretch out.

“Always looking for something, those humans. Never happy…”

Darkness, and then more ribbons of light flashing by.

“So you see, it is so simple,” the Tromindox continues. “All that we do is, suggest—

merely suggest—to the humans that whatever it is they seek, a lost loved one, wealth, greatness… it’s waiting for them. All they have to do is travel to this place. And the humans fall for it, every time. The trap is set.” The Tromindox laughs, if that’s what you can call it. A silent, mental laugh.

“And you know what happens after the first person shows up and falls into the trap? Another human invariably comes looking for them,” says the Tromindox. “It’s a cycle. The second person seeks the first person. So we tell them where their loved one is, and they come. And then someone else comes looking for that person. And so on. All searching. All showing up of their own accord, once we give them the means to get there, put a portal into their hands… ”

More ribbons of light, and the colors begin to stick together in wider bands. Christopher is tired now. He must rest to keep his strength for when he busts out of this creature. But before he does, he takes a look around.

The scene changes again, the light grows stronger, and they have arrived at their destination. It looks like a ghost town out of an old Western movie. Christopher gathers the impression of a main street, lined with wooden buildings, and hills standing behind them. A tiny town sitting at the bottom of a valley.

Christopher Silverwood must rest again.

The blue coupe, which has been given the name Betty, tears down the interstate. She can hit speeds that were unheard of in the station wagon. And there is no trailer to pull any more, Betty fits the bill just fine.

They are making much better time. As an added bonus, Betty’s engine roars loudly whenever she accelerates and purrs deeply the rest of the time.

The road remains desolate and monotonous, punctuated only by broken fence posts and grass and the occasional rock or shrub lit up by the headlights. A distant ring of mountains, barely visible in the last glow of sunset, never seems to get any closer. Brokeneck sits on the other side of those mountains, so Betty will have to reach them eventually. Right? Surely the mountains will look closer by morning. They had better get closer. A whole lot closer.

“Hold on,” Helen says, straightening up in her seat and squinting out the window.

“What is it?” Kate asks. Kate is driving now, although after they stole the car she let her daughter stay behind the wheel for a while. The road was straight, so it provided a good place to practice. The road now resembles that ancient video game… what was it called, “Night Driver?” The one that consists of just two lines on either side of the road and a car and nothing much else.

“I just saw some lights,” Helen says.

“Civilization! A sign of life!” Henry says from the backseat. His sketchbook rests on his lap, and his arm rests on Clarence, who must now sleep in a much more compact, curled up position than he did in the huge station wagon. This is the great thing about Clarence the dog. He is very much like his family. He does the best he can with what he’s got.

“I just saw lights that were exactly like the lights I saw a few minutes ago,” Helen says.

“Exactly like them in what way?” Kate asks.

“Exactly the same. Same size, same distance, same everything.”

“Are you sure you’re not just losing your ever-lovin’ mind on this endless road?” Henry says. Where does he get these expressions? His mother wonders.

“They are really the same,” Helen says. “Two lights, close together. Pretty far away from the road.”

“There they are again!” Helen yells, putting her hand up against the window. “What is that?”

“Okay, now—” Kate says, and decelerates. She pulls the car over to the side of the road, the tires crunching over gravel and rocks. She shoves open the driver’s door, climbs out of the car and puts her hands on her hips. Kate has a suspicion.

The pair of tiny square lights stare out from the horizon like eyes. They are too close to the ground to be streetlights, but too far apart to be the headlights on a car. Kate squints at them.

A device buzzes in the front seat. Kate slides back into the car and picks it up.

“Gabriel?”

The screen displays static while the channel comes in, then, the rough outline of a person’s head appears.

“Kate? Babe, you there? This is a lousy channel.”

“Yeah we’re here,” Kate says. “What about you? Are you okay?”

“Yes. You? The kids?”

“We’re alright, we’re okay. We’re… well I’m not sure. I think we’ve gotten caught in a loop. Helen noticed it, or we would’ve lost a whole night going nowhere.”

“A loop? Way out there?”

“Yeah, somebody must have dropped it on us while we were driving. I didn’t even see it. Where are you? Where’s Christopher?”

A pause.

“Kate, they got Chris.”

Kate looks up at the kids. Unfortunately they can hear this.

“Where is he now?” Kate asks.

“Kate, I got separated from him. We were coming, to your location, and they got to him when I was already halfway here. I saw it, Kate. It was really bad. They… ”

Kate stares at the static. She knows what her husband’s face looks like now, she doesn’t need a clear picture. Helen and Henry sit still and silent.

“Kate,” Gabriel says, “we’ve got some asses to kick. You get here, to the coordinates I’m sending to you, and we’re gonna kick some ass. Okay? Together. The Council, they’re in on this somehow, Kate. It doesn’t look right. I’m telling you. Don’t trust anybody. They’re doing something, somebody is working with the Tromindox.”

“Why the hell would the Council—of all people—ally themselves with the Tromindox?” Kate says.

“I don’t know babe, it’s all jumbled up in my head right now. But the pieces are there, I’m telling you. Somebody’s forging an alliance, I know it. Kate?”

“Yeah?”

“If the Tromindox have Council technology, and the other way around, you’ve got to stay low-profile. Promise me. No bounty hunting. No nothing. Okay? Hey Helen? You there?”

“Hi dad,” says Helen, leaning in toward the screen. Kate holds it up for her.

“How are your hacking skills these days?”

Helen smiles. “Good, dad. Mom kind of wishes otherwise.”

“Alright. Well, I’m guessing someone has found this conversation by now, so to whoever you are listening in, good evening to you. Helen, I want you to spend some quality time with that gift I gave you. Okay?”

“You mean the… ”

“No no, remember, we’ve probably got an audience,” Gabriel interrupts. “Just remember what I said.”

“Okay… alright,” Helen says. She feels the handle of the knife in her pocket.

“Hey, where’s Henry?”

“I’m here, Dad.”

“Henry, are you seeing anything interesting these days?”

Henry looks down at his paper. Without realizing, he’s drawn a Tromindox with a mohawk. He looks up.

“Dad, I see Uncle Chris. He’s okay, Dad, but he’s in a Tromindox.”

“Okay, you keep drawing, would you Henry? Someday soon we’ll get you a Guild Sponsor. Stay focused. We’re going to find your uncle. And we’ll find you guys, too; you just bust out of that loop there… ”

Static. The channel cuts off.

“Damn,” Kate says. She tries to dial Gabriel back in, but it’s no use. These bootleg channels never last long; someone cuts in or hijacks the signal. Kate slumps back in the front seat of the car, door open, one boot on the ground.

“Mom?” Henry says.

“Yes, Henry.”

“He’s in a town. Uncle Chris. He’s here somewhere.” Henry holds up the sketchbook and points.

Henry has drawn another old Western town. It resembles Brokeneck. “He’s someplace where we’re going.”

Kate’s mind is moving fast. The Tromindox and the Council? What could they be doing? There is no way that is a friendly alliance. One or the other of those groups must have the upper hand. And the dominant group will determine what happens next…

Kate stands up out of the car. “Helen?”

“Yeah, mom.” Helen gets out and stands looking down at the knife, and the bio-reader in its handle. Maybe some time soon the reader will activate, because Helen and her dad will be in the same space and time. Maybe soon.

“Time to hack this loop, Helen,” Kate says to her daughter.

Helen pops the knife back into her pocket and looks up at her mom, unsure what to do. “Okay… ”

“You can do it. Henry, you come along, too—in case you see something.”

Kate walks to the middle of the road; Helen and Henry take up positions on either side of her. Clarence rests his head in the car window to watch the proceedings.

“Alright,” Kate begins, “Here’s what has happened. We have found ourselves in a loop. That is why you are seeing those two lights over and over. Helen it’s a good thing you noticed, or we would have wasted the whole night driving and gone absolutely nowhere.”

“To break out of this loop,” Kate continues, “we have to discover the precise point where it begins and ends. Okay? That’s the seam. I’m betting it’s right about even with those lights that you keep seeing.”

“Mom?” Henry says.

“Yes, Henry?”

“Why are we in a loop?”

Leave it to Henry to ask the big questions.

“We are in a loop because somebody doesn’t want us to get to where we’re going,” Helen answers.

“Helen’s right,” Kate says. That is a bigger problem. The issue before them right now is to escape this loop and then afterward sort out who might be dropping loops on them.

“Who doesn’t want us to get there?” Henry asks.

“Probably the Tromindox,” Helen says. “Maybe they think they can trap mom here, and then she can’t hunt them down any more.”

“Yeah,” Henry says, nodding. “Containment.” That seems like a viable theory.

“We do not have a lot of time, so let’s just focus on finding the seam in this loop right now. Okay?” Kate says.

She steps forward slowly, looking side to side. When she reaches a position in the road even with the two lights in the distance, she stops.

“Helen?” Kate says.

“Yeah?” Helen steps up even with her mom.

“Take this.” Kate hands her daughter a device. “I want you to watch as we move forward, right here.”

“What am I watching for?”

“Just pay attention. The seam is here somewhere, and we need to know exactly where it is.”

Together, the three of them take one step forward, then another.

Helen looks down at the screen on the device. Instinctively she pushes the button on the side. Static. She runs her hand along the edge of the screen. There’s a little edge, just there. Soon she can visualize the inside of the device, its circuits and its memory.

Helen pulls the knife out of her pocket and uses its tip to gently pry the edge apart. A tiny circuit board pops out. Helen takes her thumbnail and pushes against the board, here, then there. The pattern of lights on the board change. The screen continues to display static. Helen looks up at the lights in the distance, then takes another half step forward.

The device makes a whining noise, and then begins clicking like a tiny clock. As Helen moves forward, the clicks slow. Back, and they speed up.

“You’re dialing it in, Helen. That signal is coming from the seam,” says Kate. Clarence has joined them, moving his ears around as the sounds from the device change. “We need an exact, pinpoint location. So move very slowly… ” Kate wants her daughter to solve this puzzle on her own. She keeps her directions to a minimum.

Helen backs up a little more. The clicks now make an almost continuous whirring sound. And then, suddenly a high-pitched beep.

“Stay right there!” Kate says. She fishes a digital compass out of her coat. “We need to determine this exact position.”

Kate holds the compass right in front of Helen’s nose. The display on the compass flashes, and then a long sequence of numbers flies across the screen… 868467484986658… Calculating coordinates to eighty decimal points.

Kate waits for the compass to finish its calculations, and then punches a button to lock the number. “There it is,” she says. “Everybody in the car.”

With everyone inside, Kate leaves the brake on and guns the engine so that Betty’s rear wheels spin on the asphalt, kicking up a cloud of black burnt tire rubber. Clarence sits up to take notice.

“We have to reach a high enough speed,” Kate says. “With enough velocity, we can crack the seam open and get out.” Kate lets off the brake and the car rockets forward. Road, fence posts and grass whiz by, and then those two lights appear again in the distance. A couple of minutes, and there they are again. And then again, quicker this time.

“Helen, take this compass. You need to detonate that device in your hand at the very moment that we hit these exact coordinates.” She hands the compass to her daughter.

“Um, detonate?” Helen says.

“Yes, Helen. You’ve got to blow it up in exactly the right spot. You do that, it splits the seam, and out we go,” Kate says.

“And if I don’t?” Helen asks. There go those two lights, again. They are flying by now.

“Well I’m afraid if you miss the mark, dear, you probably detonate us, instead,” Kate says. “So I suggest that you hack those devices together and synchronize them.”

Helen turns back to look at her brother, who sports a wide grin. This should be good. She looks down at the device, and sets the compass in her lap. She pulls a cord out of the side of the compass, and plugs it into the device. Then she turns the device over and pops open the back. She runs her finger across it, and pries loose a tiny metal piece the size of a staple. She turns it at an angle then tries to maneuver it in again, but it snaps off and falls on the floor.

“Crap! I dropped it!” Helen yells over the noise of Betty’s engine. They must be going over a hundred miles an hour, now. Well over.

“Henry, hold this.” Helen hands the contraption back to her brother, and drops to the floor to look for the staple.

“I can’t see anything, it’s too dark!”

“Yes you can, Helen,” says Kate. “Just relax.”

Relax. At a hundred and twenty miles an hour, while holding a detonation device. Okay.

Helen squeezes her eyes shut and feels around on the floor, pricking her finger on a tiny object and catching it under her fingernail. She brings it up and Henry anxiously hands the device back to her. She maneuvers the piece into place, one way, then another. Finally it clicks into place.

“Okay, it’s ready!” Helen shouts over the roar of the engine.

Clarence is smiling, a happy dog in a fast car.

“Alright, fire that thing off!” Kate shouts. “Everybody hang on.”

Helen punches a button and the device lets out a whine that goes higher and higher until they can’t hear it any more. And then, it emits beeps. Far apart, then closer and closer, as the numbers on the compass spin toward the correct coordinates. She places the contraption up on the dashboard, as if moving it a little farther away will help if she blows them all up. The beeping sounds are very close together now, almost continuous. The pair of lights spins by yet again, and then…

“Hold on!” Kate yells.

Helen grabs the door handle. Henry grabs the dog. Kate hangs onto the steering wheel as tightly as humanly possible.

The beeping stops, the compass number freezes, and the device blows.

Everything outside the car goes white, as if they have driven inside of a huge firework. The car lurches to one side and then the other, then drops, leaving everyone a few inches above their seat.

The car skids forward. Kate puts all her strength into the wheel. Tires hit gravel as the car spins out of control. Kate steers into the spin to compensate, and eventually the car comes to rest in a white cloud of dust.

Quiet. The family looks around at each other, out of the dust. Like a curtain falling, the cloud dissipates. They can make out shapes, buildings. A row of buildings. Old. Constructed of wood. A wide, unpaved street. And, it is now daytime.

A blackened wad of metal and wires sits on the dashboard.

Finally the air clears. Helen climbs out of the car, and looks up at the front of the Brokeneck Hotel.

The sound of skidding tires and the ensuing cloud of dust outside the window cause Mrs. Woods to look up from her tea.

“Our guests are here,” Mrs. Woods says to Daniel.

The impact of Gabriel’s fist on the Chairman’s jaw makes a beautiful sound. He has imagined that sound for such a long time, anticipating exactly how he might throw the punch, at what angle and with what velocity. This moment has been a very, very long time in coming. Gabriel’s fist carries with it through the air years of concentrated anger and frustration.

Gabriel’s knuckles throb with pain, but it’s worth it.

The Chairman needs a moment to get up off the floor. He knows what—who—he is dealing with. The Chairman fully expected to encounter hostility when he came here. He collects himself and then stands, rubbing his jaw. His teeth all appear to still be in place, but he can taste blood.

Before the Chairman can straighten all the way, Gabriel takes another run at him. But the Chairman grabs a rickety wooden stool and brandishes it as if training a circus animal. Holding the stool out front with one hand, the Chairman straightens his tie with the other.

“Mr. Silverwood, if you will listen for a moment… ” the Chairman says.

“Listen to what?” Gabriel says, circling. “Listen to you telling me how sorry you are that my brother had to be sacrificed to some stupid battle you’re having with those idiot squids? Or how—oops—you told me that my family was safe and sound, and that I could get to them, but now they seem to have gone missing? ‘Cause they’re not here, Chairman Sir. Not anywhere. I’ve looked.”

“Look, I need to explain some things to you… ” the Chairman says, keeping the stool out in front of him.

“I don’t want an explanation, I want my family,” Gabriel interrupts. “Remember our little deal? You said, ‘go get me my portals and my book and you can have your family back.’ Well I can see now, that it was a game. Some stupid game you’re playing.”

Gabriel grabs the foot of the stool and rams it forward, slamming the Chairman backwards into the wall. A cuckoo clock slips off its nail and smashes on the floor, the bird and pieces of the clock’s innards clattering in all directions.

“You put me in prison,” Gabriel says through his teeth, “and you know what I learned there? Because I had a lot of time on my hands, a lot of time. I learned how that prison works. I can break out anybody I want, any time. Got it? That was a mistake on your part. You gave me far too much time to think. You never want to do that.” Gabriel gives the stool a hard shove into the Chairman’s chest.

“Look… . Mr. Silverwood… ” the Chairman struggles to get enough air to speak. “Just listen for a minute… I don’t have a lot of time.”

Gabriel looks the Chairman in the face for a moment, and loosens the stool a little bit. “Talk.”

The Chairman straightens and finally takes in some air. “I came here as a last resort. You need to know that I am not in control of the Council at this time. The only reason I’m here, and not in prison, is because I had some failsafe codes that didn’t happen to get hacked. Yet.”

“Well that’s touching,” Gabriel says, “that you would use your special little codes to come visit me.”

“You should also know, that I am the only thing standing between the Council and the Silverwoods at this moment,” Chairman says.

“What is that supposed to mean?” Gabriel says.

The Chairman measures his words. “It means, I have a little problem back at the home office.”

“Your home office is the problem!” Gabriel yells. “In case you forgot, you were in charge of the Council, the same one that put me in prison, remember, and separated me from my family, and now you… you lost control of it? And I’m supposed to care?”

The Chairman’s face hardens.

“How do you even do that, lose control?” Gabriel rants. “I thought you were the man with all the buttons and codes and… all the secret passages. What were you, asleep at the wheel?”

“There are certain elements, both human and Tromindox,” the Chairman says, taking a very measured tone of voice, “who are working together and pooling their considerable resources. If these—elements—work together, you, me, your family, all of us are in danger. Now—we can either do something about it, or we can stand here in the Old West and throw furniture at each other.”

A device in the Chairman’s pocket lets out a high-pitched whine.

“Damn,” the Chairman says, looking down. “And now, this code has been discovered. My options are very limited. I have to go.”

“But before I do,” the Chairman says, looking Gabriel straight in the eye, “Yes. You are supposed to care. Hopefully next time I try to give you information, you will be more likely to listen. Because you fought me, I am out of time. I will offer you one more important fact about yourself before I must go.”

“What fact is that?” Gabriel says.

“You are not where you think you are,” the Chairman says.

“What is that supposed to mean?” Gabriel says. “This is the exact time frame the Tromindox traveled to with the portals. It’s supposed to be the same time frame my family is in. Or did you forget about that part of our deal?”

“Listen,” says the Chairman, “I cut a deal with you to get back the portals. And the book. But since then, the entire situation has changed. You are in fact in the right time frame. But you’re not exactly where you think you are. You are under the radar, so to speak.”

Another high-pitched whine. They are onto the Chairman now. Only a matter of seconds before he gets transported back.

“I have to go. I’m out of time.” The Chairman stares down at the screen as if watching a countdown.

Gabriel just looks at him. This fellow is a fountain of knowledge.

“Your wife has a portal I sent to her by way of a projection while she was out on the road. It was requested by one of your agents. That portal has a reverse field encoded onto it. That field, when activated, will send this whole place, and everyone in it, back where it came from. Be careful when you use it, or you’ll go, too.”

“What? Where the hell am I? Where the hell is my family? You’re not done here!” Gabriel yells.

“I’m afraid I am,” the Chairman says. “Next time, maybe you’ll shut up long enough to listen. I am sorry. But do be careful with that portal.”

“Oh… ” The Chairman reaches into his breast pocket. “And here’s the rest of the information. Too bad I didn’t have time to explain it. I’m sure you can sort it out.” He flicks a small light card onto the desk. “Time to go.”

The Chairman fades away, and Gabriel can see him reach up to rub his jaw just before disappearing.

“What portal? You idiot!” Gabriel shouts. But no one is listening any more.

The stool, with no Chairman to push on, falls to the floor and breaks into pieces. Everything in this place is rotten and brittle. And stupid.

Noises outside. This town is filled to the gills with Tromindox. Gabriel stuffs the card into a pocket and looks toward the rear door of the building, a square room that resembles a sheriff’s office. There’s even a cage in the corner, for holding the drunk and disorderly until they dry out. He feels like he’s on a movie set.

Gabriel exits out the back, into a fenced enclosure. On his left, a wooden staircase climbs up to a high platform. On the bottom of the platform he can make out a set of hinges—a trap door? In the middle of… that’s why. It’s a gallows. A massive wooden beam rises on two posts above the platform. Nice. He’s definitely fallen into a Western movie.

He hears voices nearby. From his vantage point out back, Gabriel can see down the row of buildings, brick and wood. All of them look worn and rotten. Somewhere there must be a window open, because he can hear two people talking.

“You said he was here,” a woman’s voice says, pleading in tone.

“I didn’t say anything of the sort, foolish woman, you came here of your own accord.” The other voice sounds a little strange… what is it? Digital. It sounds digital.

“But,” says the woman, “I heard it, clear as day. The message. ‘Ma’am, we’ve found your son, he’s here.’ And then the little coin, this one, here. I want my son. They said he was here—I haven’t seen him in two years… ” her voice chokes off in a sob.

“Mrs. Chen, your son is not here. He never was here. You were told a fairy tale. But you came, didn’t you. Just like the others. You came, because you thought you would find what you are searching for, here. They all do.”

Gabriel has reached a back porch a couple of buildings down. He tries to step onto it, but it is too rickety, makes too much noise. He stands still, listening. The voices seem to come from an open (well, it has no glass actually) window about ten feet away. But he can’t see anything in there; it’s too dark inside in contrast with the harsh sunlight from above.

The woman begins shrieking. “My son! You said he was here… he has to be here! I’ve been looking for him… Jeremy, where are you? Mommy’s here honey, I’m here! I’ve never forgotten you Jeremy, I… ”

Silence. Has she passed out? Gabriel decides to risk the porch, tiptoes up and peers into the window.

His eyes adjust, and two shapes emerge: one, a woman. That must be Mrs. Chen. But she’s lying on the floor, now. And over her, the unmistakable shape of a Tromindox, letting the venom do its work. The porch lets out a loud creak under Gabriel’s feet. Damn.

The Tromindox looks up, its digital face casting a blue light across the dark room. It flips through a few expressions, settling on the face of a young man. For all Gabriel knows, this could be T-441. There’s no way to tell.

Gabriel can’t retreat now, so he hops in through the glassless window. “Hello, Sir, fine day we’re having, isn’t it?”

“Who the hell are you? Get out!” the digital Tromindox face yells. It’s not 441.

“Who am I? Glad you asked. Because, that’s very important information, for you. Right now. Because, you see, if you know what’s good for you, you’ll listen very carefully,” Gabriel says.

Mrs. Chen is just a glob now, almost fully absorbed. This Tromindox works fast. It must be well fed and strong.

The Tromindox raises a spindly hand, and fashions one of its fingers into a long spike.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you, sir, for two reasons,” Gabriel says. “First of all, you’re already a little tied up, with Mrs. Chen, there. And second, if you touch me, I’ll dissolve you into a pile of powder before you can flip a new face on that funky display of yours.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” the Tromindox says. The digital face is without expression.

“What that means, sir, is that I’m a Silverwood. You know, the Silverwood clan,” Gabriel says.

“Silverwoods aren’t real,” the Tromindox says.

“Oh, we’re real,” Gabriel says, slowly walking forward. “We’re really quite real. If you don’t believe me, would you care to find out for yourself?” He holds out his hand.

The Tromindox lurches back but not far, being still attached to its ever-shrinking glob of prey. “No, I wouldn’t.”

“Good,” Gabriel says.

“Silverwood. I thought that was some extinct cult,” the Tromindox says.

“Oh, we’re far from that,” Gabriel says, “we’re very much alive.”

“And what are you doing here, now?” the Tromindox asks.

“Well,” Gabriel says, “I’m on a mission. I’m looking for someone. And I need to move around, without being bothered. If you know what I mean. So, you never saw me. Understand?”

For a split second, the anguished face of Mrs. Chen flickers across the digital display. She is fully absorbed, now. She had no idea what hit her; she never had a chance to fight back.

“And what do I get for helping you?” the Tromindox asks.

Gabriel’s hand shoots forward, slicing the end of a tentacle clean off. The severed piece writhes about on the floor while the Tromindox lets out a howl of pain. It reaches down and feverishly reattaches its lost limb.

“What did you do that for?” it yells.

Gabriel steps close to the creature. “The question is really, what do you not get for helping me. Which is, you do not get sliced up into tiny bits and dissolved into a fine powder. If you care to remain in possession all of your parts, you will keep your pixelated mouth shut. Understand?”

“Fine,” the beast says. “You are loud and sloppy, so I’m sure you will give yourself away soon enough without any help from me.” The digital face turns pouty, and the creature slinks away into the darkness. Mrs. Chen is nowhere to be seen.

Church bells ring outside. Gabriel reaches into his pocket and pulls out the light card from the Chairman. “What secrets are you holding?” he asks it. “Where am I, really?”

As if in response the card illuminates with pictures, words, and data. There’s a photograph of a lake—must be nearby. Here’s the history of Brokeneck: the Brokeneck Hotel, Mrs. Eleanor Woods, proprietress, the Brokeneck Bookstore, list of everyone currently residing in, or observed in, Brokeneck. Gabriel flips through rapidly. There’s nothing about Christopher, but he has to be here. That’s all that matters, right now. Gabriel rummages in his pockets. Time to hack together a bio-reader, so he can try to pick up Christopher’s signal—if there still is one.

Ted and Earl lean forward and peer down at the table in front of Rose, whose knitting trails into a pile in her lap. The sunlight slants into the windows of the Brokeneck Diner, projecting a row of bright squares onto the floor.

“Whatcha got there, Rose?” Earl asks.

Rose gives them a look, and then turns back to her knitting.

“My husband gave it to me,” she says.

“I didn’t ask where you got it, I asked what is it? I swear Rose, if I ask you your name, you’ll give me your phone number. Now what is that thing?” Earl says.

“Ol’ Zombie Don? Giving you presents now is he, Rose?” Ted says.

“Ted! Please maintain focus on the question at hand,” Earl says. “Now Rose, if I were guessing, I’d have to say that item looks an awful lot like that video camera Posey’s always carrying around… ”

“Excepting that it‘s all beat up,” Ted points out. “Looks like somebody ran over it with a truck or something. Rose may I examine it?”

“Suit yourself,” Rose says, needles flying. An encounter with her departed husband Don always gets her knitting pretty furiously.

Ted picks up the camera, and water spills out of it. “This thing’s all wet,” he says. “Where did Zombie Don get it?”

“The lake,” Rose says.

Ted pushes the play button, but nothing happens. “This thing’s done for,” he declares, and hands it to Earl. Earl looks it over. The casing is smeared with mud.

“Yep, sure looks like Posey’s camera,” Earl says. “I suppose we ought to return it to her, eh? She won’t be any too happy to see her camera in this sorry condition.”

Sensing an opportunity to pay a visit to his crush, Earl declares, “and I will be happy to take it to her. Rose, may I?”

“Suit yourself,” says Rose again. She has probably added ten inches to the scarf during this conversation.

Earl lays his money down on the counter to cover breakfast, straightens his bucket hat, and turns toward the door. “Ted, you coming?”

“Nah, I’ll catch you at book club later.”

“Fine,” Earl says, and marches out the door. The bells tinkle.

Ted watches him go. Rose knits. The squares of sunlight have shifted partway across the floor.

Mrs. Woods turns the camera over in her hand. She scrapes some of the dried mud off the case with her thumbnail.

“Did you check the grocery store? This is her shopping day, isn’t it?” she asks.

Earl exhales. “Yes, Eleanor, I looked over all the usual spots. Posey’s nowhere to be found. It’s not like her to wander off. I’m told this thing was found down by the lake, so I looked there, too. No sign of her anywhere.”

Earl looks down. “Sure would help if we could see what’s on that camera. Ol’ Posey filmed nonstop.”

“I might have just the person who can help us,” Mrs. Woods says, looking up. “Helen?” she calls.

No answer.

“I’ll be right back.” Mrs. Woods gets up and crosses to the rear of the lobby, toward the kitchen. “Helen? I’ve got a hacking project for you.”

A distant voice, and then footsteps pounding down the main staircase. How can one teenager make the sound of a herd of startled buffalo.

Helen emerges into the lobby as Mrs. Woods returns.

“Earl, this is Helen. She and her mom and brother are staying here.”

“Howdy, Helen,” Earl says.

“Hello.” Helen looks down at the camera.

“Miss Helen is adept at working with electronics, aren’t you, dear,” Mrs. Woods says.

“Sure,” says Helen. That’s two words the teenager has contributed to the conversation. She’s still looking at the camera.

Earl picks it up and extends it out to her. “Helen, I’d be much obliged if you might extract the videos from this here camera; its owner went missing down by the lake and we’re searching for clues. She was real fond of using this camera all the time, so we’re hopeful there’s some useful footage on here. That is, if it’s not irreparably damaged.”

Helen takes the camera. That lake again. What is it with the lake? She pushes a piece of straight black hair back behind her ear.

“Okay.” That’s three words.

Helen sits down cross-legged right there, in the middle of the rug, leaving everyone else left standing up. Earl waits a couple of beats, large hands clasped in front of him.

“Well then… ” Earl says.

Another, younger kid, scoots into the room out of nowhere, hair as white as the girl’s is black. He sits next to her and leans in, the two of them murmuring.

Mrs. Woods clears her throat loudly and glowers down at the boy, who looks up.

“Henry, this is Earl. Earl, Henry Silverwood.”

“Hello Henry,” Earl says.

Henry looks up at Earl as if just realizing he is there. “Hello,” he says.

“Earl can I offer you some tea?” Mrs. Woods says.

“Why certainly,” Earl says, and they move off toward the kitchen.

Daniel watches Helen through the panes of glass separating the front porch from the lobby.

“He likes you.”

“Shut up.”

“He does. He’s looking. He’s on the porch.”

“Henry, shut up. You’re stupid. He’s too old for me. He’s seventeen or something.”

“Whatever.”

Helen pops the camera back together and hits the play button. Nothing yet. She snaps it back open, jabs at a couple more things, adds a bit that she had left sitting on the rug, and closes it again. This time the tiny screen lights up.

“Here we go,” Helen says.

The lake in the distance is blurry, but easily recognizable. For about the first minute there is no sound on the recording, but then it kicks in and they can make out the rustling of feet in broken branches and leaves on the ground.

Helen, Henry, Earl, Daniel and Mrs. Woods lean close together over the tiny screen lying face up on the antique dining table. Helen turns the volume up to maximum.

The lake shakes around in the frame like it’s on a rollercoaster as the cameraperson, presumably Posey Van Buren, moves through the trees over the rough terrain.

And then, a tiny, breathless voice: “Ah, here you are.”

The angle lowers a bit and the camera becomes still, as if Posey has taken a seat. The image zooms in a little, and a little more. She’s filming the lake.

A white shape appears at the edge. It looks like an egret or a duck, maybe, coming in for a landing. Except, it’s too big, and too round, and it’s got no wings.

The video zooms in more, revealing that the white thing is not a bird at all, but a man. A stocky man, now standing about waist-high in the water.

“Whatcha doing, Posey?” Earl says. “Watching people swim or something?”

The roundish man in the water walks forward, slowly. No fishing rod or swim goggles are apparent, although it would be hard to say at this distance. Why is Posey shooting from so far away?

A short, sharp gasp of breath, and the camera points at the ground. The view veers around crazily and then finds the man again. Now, he’s up to his neck, still walking forward.

“Oh!” Posey cries, and the camera view drops to the ground again. The screen dissolves into a series of blurred lines, a bit of the sky, and then the dark shapes of tall trees. The sound muffles, as if someone has a hand over the microphone. Scratching sounds, a tiny voice crying out.

And then, the splatting sound of the camera hitting the muddy ground. And a crunching, like a boot crushing it into pieces. Then, nothing. That’s the end of the video.

The group looks up from the camera at each other.

“Well, they’re here,” Earl says, breathing in deeply.

“Who?” Mrs. Woods asks. “Who’s here?”

“It was foretold,” says Earl. “I tried to warn you. And now they’ve got Miss Posey. That’s all there is to it.”

Helen and Henry exchange a look. Is this guy serious? He seems like he’s serious.

“They don’t want us to know,” Earl continues. “That lake, it’s got powers. Just like Posey said. Powers to make people kill themselves. He looks straight at Henry. “Thousands of people. All into the lake. No reason. I’m telling you, there’s a spell on that lake. You must stay away from the lake.” He puts up an index finger, and displays it to each member of the group in turn. “You be warned. Stay away from the lake.”

Earl turns and rushes out into the lobby of the hotel. “I thank you kindly, Miss Helen, Eleanor. I must be going.”

“Earl, did you want Posey’s camera?” Mrs. Woods calls after him. But Earl has already left.

Daniel watches Earl step over Clarence the dog and galumph out the front door. Daniel looks down at the notebook in his hands, the one with a name on each page in his uncle’s handwriting.

Who are these people? And why was Mr. Brush recording their names? How did he even know their names? Daniel runs his fingers over the outlined shape on the back of the book again, the circle with a square in the middle. Just like those coins he played with as a child.

“What do you mean, you have to go?” Henry asks.

“Just what I said, Henry, I have to go,” Kate says to her son. “Not for very long. Hopefully. I hope not long. But I have to.”

“But why? Why now?” asks Henry. The tone of his voice is rising. He runs his finger along the edge of his sketchbook. Last night, he drew a picture of his mom, of Kate, walking into the lake. Just like all the other people: never to be seen again. He can’t tell if it’s just a fear, something creeping out of his mind, or if he should take the image literally. He has a sinking feeling he should be taking it literally—especially after seeing Posey’s video.

“We’re going with you,” Henry says.

“No, no you’re not, you’re staying here.” Kate paces back and forth. She stops and faces her son. “You’re both staying here. You understand?”

“Understand what?” Helen asks, standing in the doorway.

“Mom says she has to go,” Henry says, his voice cracking. “Away.” Those are words that neither of these children want to hear again as long as they live. So many times they have been told, “I have to go, I’ll be back. Take care of yourselves.”Again and again, never sure what is going to happen, whether they will see their mom again or if they will find themselves living on the streets like urchins.

“Not for very long,” Kate says. It’s of those things a mother says to reassure her children. She has no idea what it actually means. Kate, too, is so tired of uttering these same words. She knows her children have heard them enough times that they have become meaningless. Worse, they have become painful.

“And we’re going with her,” Henry says.

“Where?” Helen asks.

“You’re not going with me,” Kate says. This conversation is going in circles. “You both have to stay here, with Mrs. Woods. Her job is to keep you safe. This is very important. Promise me you will stay in the hotel until I get back. Both of you.” She looks back and forth at her two children.

“Where are you going, mom?” Helen says, insistently, stepping forward.

“I can’t tell you that,” Kate says.

“That’s a stupid answer,” Helen says. “Are we just supposed to sit here? You say you have to go—somewhere. But you can’t tell us. Why? Why do we have to stay here? Who is this Mrs. Woods lady anyway? Why should we even trust her?”

“Mrs. Woods knows how to protect you,” Kate says.

“Oh, protect us, but not you, mom. You have to go.” Helen feels her face growing red, her throat tightening. “And where have you been, anyway? I thought you weren’t supposed to be bounty hunting now.”

“I think I know where your father is,” Kate blurts.

“Oh here we go again, with the old tried-and-true ‘where’s Dad?’ routine,” Helen yells. “Always. That’s the trump card. Whenever we need a justification, you say it’s because you think you know where Dad is. Oh, maybe Dad is around the next corner. Maybe he’s over here. Or over there. Hey, maybe he’s under here!” Helen grabs a pillow off the bed and flings it across the room.

“You know what I think?” Helen screams. “I think Dad is gone. I think you’re in denial. We’re never going to see him. I think we’re just running around for no reason. You don’t have the slightest idea where he is. All these stupid messages? Who knows where they’re coming from. The whole thing is just… a bunch of crap. That’s what it is. You don’t know anything, mom.”

Kate takes a couple of breaths. Helen is right. Kate doesn’t know anything. Least of all, how to talk down this new, flammable version of her daughter.

“Not everything is going to be explained to you right this minute, young lady,” Mrs. Woods says, appearing in the doorway where Helen had been before she started flinging pillows.

Helen whirls around. “Great, here’s our babysitter. Well, babysitter, I’m going out now, so don’t try to stop me.”

Helen stomps out the door, past Mrs. Woods, and out of the conversation. A few seconds later the front door of the hotel slams shut.

“Mom,” Henry says, quietly.

Kate looks down at her son. How long until he becomes flammable, too. Just a couple of years, probably.

“What is it, Henry.”

“Mom, if you find Dad… when you find Dad, you have to tell him that Uncle Chris is there, okay? He’s… still alive. He’s in a Tromindox. Mom?”

“Okay Henry, I’ll tell him.”

Helen stomps down the middle of the main street of Brokeneck. She crunches the gravel under her boots. She wishes she could smash the whole town flat. Who cares if she stays in the hotel? Who cares what happens? What difference does it make? The only thing that’s clear is that nobody, nobody around here has a clue what’s going on. And she’s supposed to just do what she’s told, and sit there in some musty old building with some old bat that she doesn’t know, waiting around for her mom to come home. Shoot, they could have kept sitting around doing nothing in the city. Why come here? Why come listen to some old man ramble on about a magic lake?

After a few minutes of angry intense walking, the intense heat of the sun begins to beat down on Helen’s shoulders and back. She veers up onto the shaded walkway that runs across the gold rush-era storefronts. Droplets of sweat run down her neck. The wood planks creak under her feet. They also creak under the paws of Clarence, who has followed her.

Helen lets the dog catch up and looks down at him.

“What are we doing here, Clarence?”

Clarence ambles up and shoves his face into her hand. His cold nose is a nice relief from the heat.

She scratches his head and flops his ears around. “Nobody knows, dog. We’re just driving around, visiting every idiotic town in the West, that’s what we’re doing.”

Clarence considers this; then he cruises over and flops down in the nearest doorway. His tags jingle as they hit the deck.

The carved wooden sign on this particular door, embellished with bits of gold paint and what looks like a dusting of glitter, reads: “Gifted Florence.”

“You looking to get a psychic reading, old Clarence?” Helen asks. “Maybe Florence here can tell you if you were a Pug in a former life or something.” She peers into the window, but the velvet curtains are closed.

“Or, maybe she can tell me when I’ll get out of this idiotic town,” Helen sighs.

As if in response, the door creaks open. Clarence lifts his nose in the air, the way a large dog does to take stock of a situation entirely through smell, without having to move too much. The odor of incense bursts out and whacks Helen in the face.

“Wow,” Helen says, blinking. “That’s some strong perfume in there.”

She pushes the door open farther, standing on the outside of Clarence and leaning forward to try and make out shapes in the darkness. She can see a match being lit and moving downward onto the top of a very large candle that illuminates the immediate space with an orange-red glow.

“Come on in,” a well-worn voice says.

Helen steps over Clarence and across the threshold. Shapes and colors slowly present themselves from the darkness: rich fabrics, fringe, a really old lamp, and a really old lady.

“Hello,” the lady says, shaking out the match.

“Are you Florence?” Helen asks.

“Yes, I am,” Florence says. Her voice is surprisingly smooth.

“Are you gifted?”

“Most people seem to think so. Have a seat.”

By now, Helen can make out a mustard-yellow floral sofa to her left. She shuffles sideways between the sofa and a knee-high coffee table and sits down. Florence’s kindly face with almond-shaped eyes appears amongst a forest of carvings, fabrics, and incense smoke. Clarence has morphed into a dog-shaped silhouette against the harsh sunlight outside.

“I’m Helen,” Helen says.

“I know.”

Helen rolls her eyes. “Because I told you.”

Florence smiles. “The whole town knows who you are, Helen. That’s not news. No special powers needed there.” Florence waves her hands in the air to signify pretend magic spells. Her bracelets jingle and the flame in the candle bends away for a moment before straightening.

Then Florence leans forward. “Tell me about the dreams.”

Helen considers this for a moment. Everyone has dreams. Everyone has troublesome dreams. So this isn’t really psychic, either. It’s a leading question, meant to get you talking. Give away facts about yourself so they can be fed back to you.

“I don’t have any dreams,” Helen says.

“Of course you do,” Florence says. “Everyone does. Yours though, yours have special properties, I think. That is, until recently. What changed, Helen?”

We’re still talking in generalities here. Helen remains unimpressed. Clarence rests his head on his front paws and goes to sleep.

“Look,” Florence says, “I don’t really care what you think of the things I say. I don’t care if you believe that I’m psychic. I just know that sometimes, I get an inkling of something, and some times, it’s helpful to someone. So I ask questions. That’s it. Got it?”

Boy, this lady is kind of hard-nosed for a psychic who wears scarves and burns incense.

“Okay,” Helen says.

“Now, tell me about the dreams. Not the old ones, with the visitors. Tell me about the new ones. Your dreams have changed, haven’t they?”

“Yes, they have.”

Florence picks up a tiny teacup, and pours herself some tea. “There used to be others in your dreams, didn’t there? Where do you suppose they went?”

“I don’t know,” Helen says. “I worry sometimes that… ” she stops.

“That what?”

“That my mom might have killed them,” Helen says. She looks across at the old face, waiting for some reaction.

“She hasn’t,” Florence states matter-of-factly.

Oh okay, now we say something reassuring, because that’s how you keep ‘em coming back if you’re a psychic. If you tell people they’re dying of cancer, they won’t be a repeat customer.

“How do you know that?” Helen asks.

“Tell me about the new dreams, Helen.”

“Okay, fine. In the new dreams, there’s this house. And I try to get in, and the doorknob comes off in my hand. And then I get pulled away. That’s about it.”

“Is there a sound?”

“In the dream?”

“Yes. Is there a sound? This is important.”

Helen considers for a moment. “Yes, there’s a sound. It’s like… a gurgly sound. Like I’m… ”

“Underwater?” Florence asks.

“Yeah, maybe. Maybe it’s water. Now that you mention it.”

“Well,” Florence says, leaning back into the mountain of embroidered cushions behind her. “Well.”

“What?” Helen says.

“You know, a lot of people come to psychics to talk to the dead, or they hope for a message from the great beyond, or something like that. They believe that out there somewhere, there’s a message for them. And they need me to help them get the message. You know, from old Grandpa telling them where the money is hidden, or everything is going to be okay, or I was murdered, what have you.”

Florence sets down her teacup. “But mostly, the things that come to you, dreams, messages, those are you talking to yourself. You are trying to come to terms with something. You need to listen to what you are saying. It’s not a voice from an old relative.”

“Okay,” Helen says, “So what am I saying to myself with gurgly noises in my ears when I’m asleep?”

Florence simply looks back at her. The two of them sit very still. Clarence lets out a large sigh in his sleep and shifts slightly in the doorway.

“Underwater… ” Helen says. “It’s… ”

Helen leaps up from the mustard-yellow couch, nearly upsetting the candle and teacup. “I’m sorry, I have to go.”

“Okay,” Florence says.

Helen trips over the edge of the rug, hurdles over Clarence, and sprints out the door.

“Thanks Florence! Clarence, go home!” she yells from the middle of the street.

“No problem,” Florence says, taking another sip of tea. “See you soon.”

Helen sprints forward through the tree branches, her arms stinging as she holds them up to protect her face. Her frantic breaths come even faster than her stride. Dead branches snap under her boots.

The lake’s surface appears through the foliage, a flat blue line growing slowly thicker. Helen trips and falls, bashing her knee into a long-dead log embedded in the ground. She claws with her hands in the leaves to pull herself back up and keeps running.

The ground slopes steeply and her feet slide downward in the mud. Big, craggy rocks protrude in crazy directions, either offering her steps for her descent or something to trip on. Helen has to slow down to pick out her footing, but her eyes stay fixed on the widening blue area in the distance. Now she can make out ripples on the surface of the water. The foliage and rocks thicken and tangle her feet. She must kick her legs forward with all her strength and leap over masses of plants and rocks.

The ground becomes looser and sandier as she gets lower, demanding more effort with each step. Helen does not take her eyes off the surface of the lake, and as she clears the foliage she sees exactly what she does not want to see: a figure, dressed in black and with white hair, waist-deep in the water.

“Mom!” she screams. “Mom!”

She pumps hard with her legs through the thick branches, just a few brambles left between her and the edge of the lake. The figure does not turn. Helen’s foot sticks in the ground and she sprawls forward.

“Mom! Don’t!” she screams again, pulling up to her knees in the wet sand and dirt. Her hair sticks to her forehead. She pulls herself upright.

The figure still does not respond. Now Helen can only see a head and shoulders.

“Mom! Answer me!”

Helen sloshes out into the water at a full run, stubbing her feet on the rocky bottom and flailing with her arms. Now she can only see a little bit of white hair—and the figure is gone. Helen’s mom is gone under the surface of the lake.

“Mom!” she screams again and dives into the water. She kicks forward and swims under the surface, but can only see a murky green smudge. She comes up for air, desperate to keep her bearings on where she saw her mom’s head disappear. But the ripples on the surface offer no clue.

She swims farther forward, putting her face under the water and scanning for any sign at all. Surely the shape of a person would be easy to pick out. There would be a big, dark object sinking toward the bottom. Right?

Nothing. No sign of anything. Just junky water. And some rocks. Nothing else.

“You didn’t see it?”

“Henry, there’s nothing under there. Just—mud. That’s it. Believe me, I would have noticed.”

Henry furrows his brow. “You should have seen it,” he says. “It’s there.” He looks down at his notebook.

“Henry… ” Helen says.

“It’s there,” Henry repeats.

Helen knows that her brother sees things that others can’t, things that haven’t happened yet. But a town under the lake—that’s a hard one to believe. Helen looked, and there’s nothing under the lake. Just some muddy fish. And her mom.

Mom.

Why would she do that?

Helen doesn’t want to upset Henry any more. Her head is still jumbled up. And Henry, even with his imagination, is spinning an awfully elaborate excuse for their mom walking into the lake. He’s gone and constructed the crazy notion of an entire town, under water. She leans over and puts her arm around her brother.

“It’s there, Helen,” Henry says again. “Maybe it’s out of synch with us, maybe it’s in another time. But it’s there.”

The drawing in his notebook depicts a western town, complete with a general store and a hotel and a main street down the middle. Something out of Pale Rider or High Noon. It almost seems like an older, worn-out version of Brokeneck.

Helen says nothing. She is afraid. She is afraid for Henry, she is afraid that their mom really has gone into the lake and drowned herself, she is afraid that she will never know why, and she is afraid that there is nothing, nothing she can do about it.

Code Entry Complete

Protocol Accepted

Connection Established

G: K, you there?

G: K need to talk to u

G: K PICK UP

K: dad it’s helen, not mom

G: helen where’s mom?

K: she’s gone

G: gone where?

K: into the lake

G: what lake? helen what are u saying?

K: the lake at brokeneck

K: she’s gone

K: i can’t track her, there’s nothing there

K: i saw her go in i swear

K: dad what should i do?

G: stay where you are

G: stay at the hotel

G: don’t leave the field protecting the hotel

G: i’ll be there i promise

Re-Establishing Signal

Buffering

Buffering

Reconnecting

Connected

G: helen where are u right now

K: on the roof

K: of the hotel

K: dad i saw her go in

K: why would she do that???

K: what am i supposed to do

G: just stay there

G: promise me you’ll stay

G: where is henry?

K: henry is here

K: he says there’s something under the lake

K: but i went in there. there’s nothing i can’t see anything

K: mom is gone

G: can henry see something?

G: but i don’t care you 2 stay put

G: promise me

G: Promise

Alternate Code Entry Received

New Connection Detected

G: line not secure

K: dad

G: LINE NOT SECURE GET OFF NOW

Gabriel’s screen goes dark. He pries the device open and pulls out the memory unit, throws it on the ground and stomps on it. He can’t risk getting traced, or giving away his daughter’s location. He hopes Helen has done the same on the other end.

Gabriel looks up from the ground and Kate Silverwood, his wife, the mother of his children and the love of his life, is standing in front of him.