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Barfbag snorts, already scanning the living room like a vulture. "Wrecking stuff is kinda our thing, Reily. But we’ll try to keep it to a minimum."

Mom’s in her wheelchair by the window, and when she sees them, her face lights up. "Oh, hi boys! Come on in!"

"Whoa," Boris says, his eyes widening as he takes in Mom’s collection of vinyl records on the shelf. "You’re into Slayer too, Mrs. D?"

"Absolutely!" Mom beams, her enthusiasm catching me off guard. "Reign in Blood is a classic. Have you heard South of Heaven?"

Barfbag lets out a whoop, grabbing one of Mom’s records like he’s found buried treasure. "You’re officially the coolest mom ever!"

I stare at her, my mouth hanging open. Since when does Mom know Slayer lyrics? Since when does she care about heavy metal? She’s supposed to be the one who listens to old country music and hums along to Patsy Cline, not headbang toAngel of Death.

"Mom," I say slowly, "what’s going on?"

She shrugs, her eyes gleaming. "What? I had a life before library books and diaper changes, you know."

Boris and Barfbag are already air-guitaring in the middle of the living room, their heads bobbing to some imaginary beat. Mom joins in, her fingers moving like she’s shredding on an invisible guitar. I’ve officially stepped into some alternate dimension.

"Hey, Mrs. D," Boris says, pausing mid-air-guitar. "Have you ever taken your wheelchair through a fast food drive-thru? Like, does that even work?"

Mom tilts her head, considering. "You know, I’ve never tried. Should we find out?"

Barfbag’s eyes light up. "This is gonna be epic."

I groan, pinching the bridge of my nose. "At least my mom is in…good?…hands I guess."

"Don’t worry, Reily," Mom says, grinning at me. "We’ll be fine. You go do what you need to do."

"Yeah, yeah," I mutter, grabbing my keys off the hook. "Just... don’t burn the house down."

"Only a little bit," Barfbag calls after me, and Boris laughs like it’s the funniest thing he’s ever heard.

I head out to the POS, sliding into the driver’s seat and slamming the door. The engine sputters twice before finally roaring to life after I punch the dashboard a few times for good measure.

"Perfect," I mutter, gripping the steering wheel. "Just perfect."

As I pull out of the driveway, I can see Mom and the boys through the window, their laughter echoing out into the yard. For a second, I almost feel guilty for leaving her with them. Almost.

The POS rattles down the road, and I focus on the task ahead. Gary’s cabin looms in my mind like a storm cloud, and I can’t shake the feeling that I’m walking into something I might not walk out of. But for now, I push that thought aside and keep driving.

The POS sputters down the long, winding private road, kicking up gravel and dust like it’s trying to take a last stand before giving up the ghost. I squint at the signs posted every tenfeet.No Trespassing. Trespassers Will Be Shot. Survivors Will Be Shot Again.

"Charming," I mutter, tightening my grip on the wheel. The man’s got a real flair for hospitality.

The cabin comes into view, all natural wood and stone, looking like something out of a billionaire’s fever dream. It’s massive, with windows that probably cost more than my entire house. I pull up in front and kill the engine, the POS wheezing its last breath as I step out.

No sign of Gary. The silence is unnerving, broken only by the distantthwackof someone chopping wood. I follow the sound around the back, my boots crunching on the gravel.

There he is. Shirtless, sweat glistening on his chest as he swings an ax with the kind of precision that drives me wild. He’s built like a damn mountain, all hard lines and sharp angles. The scars on the left side of his face catch the sunlight, giving him a jagged, broken look that’s equal parts terrifying and mesmerizing.

I clear my throat. "Excuse me."

He doesn’t stop. The ax bites into the log with a satisfying crack.

"Excuse me," I try again, louder this time.

Still nothing.

"Hey!Gary!"