.././.\\.\//.///\..

"The cul-de-sac house. Go," Zandra says when she gets into Ray's car. She's in such a hurry, she nearly falls into the backseat.

Behind the wheel, Chad cranks his neck around. "It's not dark yet."

"You're late picking me up. Just go," Zandra says. "And turn that shitty music off, for fuck's sake."

"Yeah, sorry about being late. I think I got some bad shit. My head hurts. Kinda fuzzy to drive," Chad says in a limp, barren way that convinces Zandra he's barely capable of driving poorly, much less at all.

Bexley prods Chad to get out of the driver's seat and says, "I can drive."

Great. Good. Whatever. Go.

Chad and Bexley switch spots in the front of the car, but they struggle freeing themselves from the saw-toothed latches on the seat belts. A void sits where Zandra's patience used to be, and she shouts obscenities at them to pick up the pace. Finally, Bexley gets behind the wheel, and the car starts for Pixie and the cul-de-sac house.

Next time, don't wear seat belts.

From how she drives, it doesn't appear Bexley took whatever Chad did. She turns the car onto the dead-end street a few minutes later.

"Should I stop where we normally stop?" Bexley says, slowing the car to a crawl before the road curves.

"No. Pull into the driveway," Zandra says. "Pixie already knows who I am."

"Yeah, but she doesn't know us."

"It doesn't matter."

However, as the car rounds the curve and Pixie's house comes into view, it matters quite a bit.

"Stop, stop, stop. Reverse it. Get us out of here," Zandra says.

There's a van in the driveway. A familiar van.

Shit. He beat me here.

Bexley hits the brakes and shifts into reverse until Zandra can see the dead-end sign.

"What was that about?" Bexley says.

Zandra almost replies with, "I need a minute to think," but, realizing that would break character, she says, "I got hit with an extremely strong negative vibration. I need to consider how to approach this."

That's only half a lie. I'll bet there are some pretty negative vibes going on in that house right now. That's why I needed to get here first.

Thanks a fucking lot, Chad.

Bexley shifts the car into park. "I felt it, too. Like I was washed in negativity."

That would be the power of suggestion, but nice try.

Bexley continues. "It's like this whole experience is tuning me in. So much drama and information attacking my brain. Rewiring it for—I don't know—something."

Zandra tugs at the baggy sleeves on the purple gown Bexley gave her and tries not to roll her eyes.

I don't have time to step in your bullshit, Bexley.

Chad passes around a pack of cigarettes. Zandra takes one. Cigarette smoke muddies the inside of the car. No one rolls a window down. It's starting to rain.

"Play the loop?" Bexley says.

Zandra shakes her head. "There's enough negativity out there already. We overload that house with spirits, there's no telling what will happen."

"What's the negativity from, anyway?"

Oh, nothing much. Just the possibility that the man in the van is in the process of murdering his pregnant girlfriend. Totally not out of the question. The statistics bear it out.

Zandra doesn't reveal that bit. She pretends she didn't hear the question.

Chad rubs his forehead and alliterates, "Hey, Zandra, remember that blood on the boat in the bathroom? How you said it could tell the future?"

"I remember," Zandra says.

"Wasn't that my blood?" Bexley says.

"I forget, but Zandra said it could tell the future or something," Chad says.

"So you want me to bleed all over the car and ask the blood what to do?" Bexley says.

"I mean, maybe."

Zandra coughs into her sleeve. This time it's from the smoke in the car. It's too much even for her. She cracks the window next to her. A few raindrops splatter against her cheek.

I'm drawing a blank here. I wish my ankle didn't hurt so fucking much today.

"We need to clear out the negativity, right? How would you normally do that, Zandra?" Bexley says.

By telling the mark my price.

"By overwhelming the target with positive vibes," Zandra says.

Bexley nods. "Makes perfect sense. Then we need to do something positive, right?"

"Well, sure."

Bexley reaches down by her seat and pulls a latch. The trunk of the car pops open. She opens her door and walks to the rear of the car.

"What's she doing?" Chad says.

Zandra and Chad join Bexley at the trunk. Bexley already has what she's looking for in her hands: a lug wrench.

Fuck 'em up with a lug wrench? Yeah, that'll change the vibe real quick. I like how you think, Bex.

"If you move the subwoofers, I bet there's a spare tire and a jack under the bottom part," Bexley says and twirls the lug wrench in her hands.

Chad checks the tires. "What are you talking about? We don't have a flat."

"Positive vibes. Didn't you see it?" Bexley says.

"See what?" Zandra says.

"The tire on that van in the driveway," Bexley says. "It looked like they put on a little spare. I think they're called a donut? The donut looked flat. Bad vibes. Two flats in a row and no spare."

Ah, so that's why the van was so wobbly. How did I miss that?

My fucking ankle, that's how. It'd be easier to think if my bones didn't feel like they were ready to pop out of my skin.

Doesn't matter. There's no way a spare on a car is going to match up to a van.

"Positive vibes from a random act of kindness, like changing a tire. I just hope it's enough to cancel the negative stuff," Bexley says.

"This is why I love you, Bex," Chad says with a goofy grin. "But my uncle didn't keep that lug wrench for changing tires, if you know what I mean."

The rain picks up. Zandra reaches down. She pushes aside some random debris in the trunk. The subwoofer blocks the handle for the lower compartment of the trunk. If there even are a spare tire and a scissor jack, accessing them will take time.

Too much time.

Wait. What's that?

Zandra fishes out a yellow spray can with a short tube attached to the nozzle. The side of the can shows how it's "EZ as 1-2-3" to inflate a flat tire with the pressurized chemical goo inside.

OK, I can work with this. Bexley, you saved my ass. And, possibly, Pixie's.

"Like everyone else too lazy to change a flat, your uncle tossed one of these in the trunk," Zandra says and gives the can a shake.

Bexley closes the trunk. "That's perfect."

"I agree, child. In fact, this is an excellent first step for you to try energy work," Zandra says and hands Bexley the can.

"You think so? This could really be it?" Bexley says.

"If you can flush out the negative energy you sensed with positive energy, you crossed a line you can never uncross. You're working with energy. I'm amazed at your progress," Zandra says and rubs her palms together.

Bexley claps. Chad gives her a hug.

"Now, why don't you two drive up to the van? Pull up right behind it, child. Confront that negative energy head on with an act of random kindness," Zandra says. She gets ahead of any pushback. "Remember, this will all be worth it when we're pulling your retirement out of the Wisconsin River."

Is the driver still in the van? Or did he go in the house, too? I guess they'll find out.

"So where're you gonna be?" Chad says to Zandra.

Squatting by a dryer vent to eavesdrop on Pixie.

"Attacking this negative energy from the other side of the house. The spirits can't fight two fronts at the same time," Zandra says. "Give me five minutes, and then you go."

Bexley and Chad hop back into the car while Zandra takes the long way through the woods. Even in the thick green of the trees and brush, the purple gown sticks out like a wobbly mass of grape jelly slowly basting the foliage.

That's OK. Pixie and the man in the van aren't taking their "discussion" out to the patio.

Zandra is right about that, but wrong about where she can eavesdrop. Peeking through the bushes into the backyard, she doesn't spot a dryer vent. There are, however, plenty of windows to choose from.

Glass is such a poor insulator, it's great for eavesdropping. All I need to do is duck down beneath one of the windows, but it's a risk to get into place. That's where the good Samaritans come in with their roadside assistance.

A car door slams shut from the direction of the driveway. Neither Bexley nor Chad keep their voices down when they introduce themselves. Zandra listens to them explain why they're there—to inject some tire repair goo into the flat on the van—to an unidentified someone.

That would be the driver. Seems the man in the van preferred to keep his confrontation with Pixie private. Good. That reduces the number of variables to deal with in the house.

Zandra makes her move when she hears the familiar voice of the man in the van say, "What the hell are you two doing?" in the driveway. She shuffles out of the bushes and drags her protesting ankle to a window. She chooses one that gives a view into the kitchen, not that she'll be looking in.

Never let a psychic into your home. Ever. You're basically sticking your head into the lion's jaws. Because a good psychic might figure out how to channel your dead grandpa, but a great psychic will memorize the floor plan.

Hunched down in the space between the bottom of the window and the lawn, Zandra waits for the conversation inside to resume. When it finally does, she has to check to make sure she's at the right house.

That's not what I was expecting.