WE’VE BEEN WATCHING FOR A DAY AND A HALF. IT’S MY SHIFT. I’m in the upstairs bedroom, and Trey is asleep on the couch downstairs as late-morning light pours through the windows. But I’m barely paying attention to the mansion across the street because I’m working with Emmaline. At first, she loved her treats so much that she whined when she scented them. At the slightest noise from her, I put a hand on her muzzle. When she quiets down, I release her nose and offer the treat. She’s getting better at it, and most of the time she’ll quiver with excitement as the treat nears instead of whining. When she does whine, my hand on her muzzle shushes her instantly.

I’m guessing wildly about how to train my dog, and I hope I’m not damaging her in some way. But the alien in the hospital keyed to the sound of her soft whining so fast it was uncanny, so I need a way to keep Emmaline quiet if we have to hide again.

A door slams.

Emmaline barks.

I grab the binoculars from the nightstand and dart over to the window, Emmy at my heels.

A flash of movement outside the mansion. Hidden by trees. My heart pulses in my throat.

I follow the movement down the sidewalk. The trees break wide, and I gasp.

It’s a girl. Partly shaved head, black hair swept over to one side, black combat boots beneath a black knee-length overcoat. A camouflage backpack is slung over one shoulder.

I drop the binoculars and race down the stairs. “Trey! Trey, wake up.”

He rolls over on the couch, blinking sleep from his eyes.

“It’s a girl!” I pant out. “That’s who was in the mansion across the street. She just came outside.”

He launches from the couch like a bullet, yanks on his court trainers, retrieves the rifle from the coffee table. I throw on a jacket and grab Emmaline’s brand-new leash, which makes her whip around in tiny circles.

As I clip the leash on to her collar, Trey pauses. “You sure it was a human? Maybe you saw . . . something else.”

“Only if ‘something else’ looks like an emo teenager.”

“You think we should talk to her?”

“Hell, yeah.”

“Take your handgun.”

“In my right pocket. Magazine clip in my left.”

Trey heads for the door. “We need to find a better carrying solution for your gun than your pocket.”

“Agreed.”

He opens the door, and cold air rushes in. The sky is cloudy, the air murky with haze—tiny flies and dust and that greenish tint. Emmaline whimpers with excitement, and that changes my mind about bringing her along. I say, “Sit. Stay.”

She gives me a single piteous whine, but she plunks her bottom down on the entry tile. “Good girl,” I murmur, and I close the door.