In the morning, with a piece of toast clenched between her teeth, Lyla pulled the front door closed behind her and ambled down the porch steps toward Darcy's car. She was surprised when Jack stopped his car bumper-to-bumper with Darcy's.

"Hey," he called.

"Uh..." Darcy leaned across the front seat, looking up at her friend.

Lyla shrugged.

"Can I ride you to school? Or whatever?" he asked.

"Just like that?" Lyla chewed her toast.

"I need to talk," he said.

"So?" Darcy asked.

Lyla checked her phone. 7:42.

"Make a decision," Darcy pressed. "I got a first-period quiz."

Lyla leaned in the window. "You mind if I..."

"Girl's gotta do what a girl's gotta," she said, putting the car in reverse.

"Total blindside," said Lyla. "I didn't even know he--"

"I get it," Darcy cut her off. She backed up then steered around Jack's car.

Lyla jogged to Jack's passenger door and got in. "You could have texted."

With his jaw clenched, Jack checked his mirrors then drove down the street. Before he said a word, she could feel his anger.

"How much salt you think we need?" he asked, scratching the carpet of whiskers below his cheekbone.

"Uh, what?"

"Salt. For the grave thing."

"Where's your sling?"

"Fuck that sling."

"You missed the turn," Lyla said. "Shoulda gone left."

"Right." He heaved an aggravated sigh. "So how much?"

"I don't know. I never burned a body."

"I'll get a couple twenty-five-pound bags. And a gallon of gas should do it, right? Maybe two to be safe.

She shrugged. "Yeah, I guess."

"Can we store the stuff in your shed, maybe?"

"I think probably, yeah."

She was glad that he'd finally accepted the urgency of their situation but she didn't believe that they were fully prepared. How would they deal with transporting their supplies to the summit of that hill? They never discussed plans for dealing with lookouts, like the big ponytail guy. And then there was the matter of the gruesome creature she'd seen on the drone footage. She didn't know how to broach that topic with Jack.

"So last night," he said. "Our cat went missing. Couldn't find her anywhere. Chelsea's a house cat. Never goes outside. My mom was losing it. She said right before lunch she heard Chelsea hissing at the side door to our deck. Some kid, some little girl was trying to get her to come outside. Before my mom could get the door unlocked, the kid was gone."

Lyla bit her lower lip, feeling her heart racing. She didn't want to hear the end of his story.

"In the middle of the night, we got woken up by the cat screaming. Not yowling. She was straight up screaming. We looked around the backyard and front yard and out in the street. Couldn't find anything."

He tightened with anger.

"So, this morning, there she is. With her neck broke, her head almost twisted off. She's laying right on my hood in the middle of that O. Bunch of blackbirds were picking apart her little body."

"Oh, my God." Lyla lowered her head.

"This shit has got to stop," he snarled. "Whatever we need to do. I don't care."

"So what about your shoulder?"

"I can deal with it."

"And how do we deal with the dude in the Cadillac? Or anybody else creeping around up there?"

"I don't know. I'll get a gun if I need to."

"Jack, come on. I know you're upset. But you can't do that."

He didn't respond and that frightened Lyla more than any irrational thing he might have said.

........

At the end of the day, she picked up her phone from the security desk, checked her phone for messages, and was disappointed to find nothing from Jack. She'd been sick with worry. His "I'll get a gun" remark surfaced over and over again, invading her thoughts throughout the day.

At the curb, Ryan welcomed her with his patented concerned father smile. "Something wrong?" he asked reading her expression when she got in the car.

"Not really."

"Don't feel like talking about it."

"Nothing to talk about."

She didn't mean to sound salty to her dad, but she couldn't honestly answer his questions. Better to say nothing.

After a quiet ride, instead of pulling into the driveway, he stopped the car in front of the house and asked, "You need to take a shower?"

"Why? Do I stink?" She sniffed her armpits.

"Hot water tank is out. I'm running to the hardware store to pick up some parts."

She found her house keys and got out of the car.

"You might smell a little gas," said Ryan. "I opened the window in the basement to air it out."

"The house isn't gonna blow up or anything, is it?"

"I'll be right back." He drove away.

She unlocked then pushed open the door sniffing when she passed through the entryway. She didn't smell natural gas. She climbed the stairs to her bedroom and off-loaded her backpack onto her bed. With a sigh, she grabbed her AP Chemistry book and plopped down at her desk, finding her chapter.

She read quietly, "Given the following standard reduction potentials, which reaction would be expected to occur?" She groaned when she scanned the list of equations below the question.

The clanking of metal tools was a welcome distraction. "You back already?" she called.

No response.

"Dad?"

She got up and went to the top of the staircase. She definitely heard activity in the basement. She descended the stairs and crossed the kitchen to the open basement door. She peered down.

"Hey, Dad?"

She ambled halfway down the stairs, surprised to find her dad's toolbox beside the water heater but no dad.

Her heart pounded when her eyes shifted to the soiled gray and white striped top lying on the dryer, the one she wore the night Keenan was accidentally killed, the one she threw away when she got home, the one she cut to ribbons when her dad found it in the backyard, the one she burned when she found it in her suitcase when she returned from Spring Break. 

A menacing voice behind her growled, "Hope you don't mind." She spun around. Geno stood at the top of the stairs, a macabre grin exposing his yellow teeth. "The window was open so I let myself in."

She retreated down the stairs, choking back a scream. She eyed the open window as Geno hobbled down into the basement. Tired of running, she planted her feet and jabbed a finger at him, or rather at the thing inhabiting Geno.

"Let him go!" she snarled.

He descended another step and stopped, a confused expression on his pale face.

"You're Geno Bonatello. Geno Bonatello. You layed down on that park bench. You had nowhere else to go."

When a flicker of recognition illuminated his brown eyes, she knew she had made contact.

"You were probably cold and tired. So very tired."

His chest fell when he let out a mournful sigh.

"Conrad said he found you on the bench. Covered in snow. He couldn't save you. You were... gone."

A tear rolled down Geno's creased cheek.

"Don't let him use you. You know where you need to go. Your place is not here. Not anymore."

His face contorted, his upper lip curled. Keenan's red eyes peered out of Geno's eye sockets. "You're mine," he croaked in a strained voice. "Always will be."

"Damn you!" she shouted. "Let. Him. Go."

Geno's mouth dropped with a deep sigh. His brown eyes turned downward.

She followed his eyes and found that his shoes were covered in snow.

"Geno Bonatello," she said gently. "Go home."

He slowly turned and plodded away, the electron dance expanding to reveal a swarming pattern of particles, his solid form fading gradually with each step. By the time he reached the top, he had vanished. Only a small mound of melting snow remained.