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Scriiiiiiiitch.

I knew The Dream was coming.

Considering the events of the day, how could it not?

I’d prepared for it by keeping the TV on and not switching off the bedside lamp, all so that I’d know immediately where I was when The Dream startled me awake. What I didn’t expect was how The Dream would linger just a beat longer than normal. Long enough for me to not just sense the person lurking on the other side of the tent but hear them as well.

The soft rustle of clothing.

Shifting feet on the grass.

Slow, labored exhalations.

Then I wake up and, despite my preparation, experience a moment of disorienting panic when my eyes snap open and the ominous sound of The Dream fades.

I sit up and reach for the notebook. When I find a blank page, I scribble something my very first therapist told me. On a night like this, I need the reminder.

The Dream is just a manifestation of guilt and grief. It is not real. It cannot hurt me.

That may be true, but it certainly lingers long after I turn off the TV and bedside lamp. Lying in the darkness, I fear that closing my eyes will send me straight back into The Dream, where it will reset and begin anew. So I keep them wide open as the hour grows later and later.

By the time two a.m. has come and gone, I slide out of bed and go to the window. A light is on over the garage of the house on the other side of the cul-de-sac.

The Wallace house.

Just like last night, I strain to see what set it off. Also like last night, there appears to be nothing there. The Wallaces’ driveway is empty. Staring at that illuminated patch of asphalt, all I can think of is Vance Wallace and what he said earlier.

I saw him outside last night.

But something triggered that garage light before scurrying away. I know because the light soon goes out, leaving Hemlock Circle dark once again.

Until the light over the Patels’ garage starts to glow.

I grip the windowsill when it flicks on, knowing deep down that it’s happening again. A creeping, unseen something is circling the cul-de-sac, this time in reverse. Unlike last night, I don’t wait for the light to click off at the Patels’ and come back on at Russ’s house a few seconds later. Instead, I pull on a pair of joggers, go downstairs, and grab my phone. In seconds, I’m out the front door. By then, the light over the Chens’ garage is just clicking on.

I halt in the front lawn, watching it glow just above the hedge separating our properties. The someone—or something—that set it off is likely on the other side of that hedge this very second, waiting to cross into my yard.

I reach into my pocket for the phone, wondering if I should call the police. They’ll want to know there’s a potential prowler in the same neighborhood where Billy Barringer was abducted. Then again, whoever it is might be gone by the time the cops arrive. In fact, they might have already left. The light above Russ’s garage flicks off, indicating there’s no one near his driveway. It’s possible whoever was there became aware of my presence and fled.

Or they could simply be waiting for me to go inside.

Or, worse, waiting for me to come closer to the hedge.

I shove my phone back into my pocket and clench my fists, pretending I know how to swing a punch when the truth is I’ve never hit anyone, ever.

I start moving again, taking a hesitant step across the lawn.

Then another.

Waiting for someone to ease through the hedge.

Praying that it doesn’t happen.

Fearing that it will.

I continue across the lawn like that.

Step, wait, step, pray, step, fear.

Deep inside the hedge, something moves. I hear it rustling, the sound drawing me closer when common sense tells me I should be doing the opposite. Getting away and going back inside and calling the damn police.

But it’s too late. I’m already here. Inches from the hedge as the rustling gets louder.

When a rabbit darts out, close enough that I can feel the prickle of its fur on my shins, I yelp so loud I fear it’s awakened the entire neighborhood. It certainly startles the rabbit, which zips across the driveway. I run in the opposite direction, around the rear corner of the house, not stopping until I realize where I am.

The backyard.

Halfway between the house and the woods.

Standing in the exact spot where my tent had been that night.

I suck in a nervous breath. I can’t remember the last time I stood in this backyard. Definitely years. Maybe even decades. All this time, I’ve purposefully avoided it, afraid to confront the memories being here would bring.

Now here I am, back at the scene of the crime, and my first thought is how the yard has barely changed in the past thirty years. It remains a tidy swath of grass stretching from the back of the house to the edge of the woods. The magnolia tree directly behind the house is bigger, of course, its branches now brushing the siding and roof. But everything else looks exactly the same. Even the grass where the tent once sat. A shock. Considering how unholy this spot is in my mind, it feels like it should be nothing but scorched earth.

I kneel and run my hand over it, the freshly cut blades tickling my palms as the green, earthy scent does the same to my nostrils. Beyond the lawn, the forest is alive with noise. Crickets and cheepers and birds that hunt in the dark. Fireflies lazily dance in the trees, as bright as the stars sparkling in the cloudless sky.

It’s all so peaceful.

And menacing.

I stand and start walking toward the forest, inexplicably drawn to it. I peer into the dark cluster of trees, horrified by the knowledge that almost thirty years ago, on a night very much like this, someone emerged from these woods. They stood next to the tent where Billy and I slept. They sliced the tent, grabbed Billy, and—

I force myself not to think about the rest. It’s too horrible to imagine.

To distract myself, I pull my phone out of my pocket and consider calling Claudia again. Instantly, I decide against it. Not twice in one day.

As I drop the phone into my pocket, I notice something strange.

The sounds coming from the woods have stopped. No crickets. Or cheepers. Or birds of prey hurtling through the night with a flap of their wings. Even the fireflies, so bright a moment ago, appear to have fled.

In their place is silence and a tickle on the back of my neck that tells me I’m not alone.

Someone else is here.

In the yard.

Right behind me.

I spin around and see—

Nothing.

There’s no one else around. It’s just me and the grass and the magnolia tree, its moon shadow stretching across the lawn to my feet. My gaze follows it back to the house, which sits silent and dark, casting its own rectangular shadow onto the backyard.

And in that darkness, barely visible on a patch of grass that only seconds earlier had been empty, is another baseball.