KISS makeup. But no cat. No stars.

Demon.

“Dana!”

“She’s fine,” Patricia says. “And you’re doing it. You’re—”

But Kit is trembling, shaking where she stands in her vision. She looks to see Sue Bird and Rebecca Lobo far away, their backs to her, walking away from what comes.

When she looks back to Dana, she doesn’t see Dana at all. No grass. No park.

She’s in the living room of a Samhattan home.

“Wait…”

“What is it, Kit?”

She sees a woman, Beck Nelson’s mom, sitting in a big chair in front of a television. Kit met Mrs. Nelson at last year’s season-ending banquet. Mrs. Nelson told her Beck admires her. Talks about her at home. This home.

“I’m not at the park anymore,” Kit says.

“That’s okay. Sometimes the setting switches on you.”

But this feels worse than that. Kit has never been to Beck Nelson’s house.

“No,” she says. “This isn’t right, Patricia.”

“It’s all right. Whatever you think about, it’s—”

That same engine revs outside the Nelson home and Patricia’s voice is drowned. The front door opens behind Kit and she turns and sees Beck, sweating, wearing shorts and a jersey, carrying a basketball.

“Hey, Mom,” Beck says.

Mrs. Nelson smiles.

“Beck,” Kit says. But they don’t hear her.

Beck shuts the door.

“The police are nice,” Beck says.

“They didn’t mind you shooting baskets?”

“No. I think they wanted to shoot too. I shot it well.”

Kit believes it. Beck Nelson is science-minded. She talks about basketball like pool players do their angles. A year younger than Kit, she’s already older in ways Kit doesn’t think she’ll ever be.

Beck tilts her head to the front door. She sniffs the air.

“Do you smell that?” She asks.

Kit thinks Beck smells her. Somehow smells Kit in this house.

“I don’t think so?” Mrs. Nelson says.

Beck looks back to the front door. To the pitch-darkness of the corner where the two walls meet.

“Smells like…alcohol,” she says.

“Oh no,” Kit says. “No, no, no, no…”

From elsewhere, miles, Patricia speaks: “It’s okay, Kit. It’s—”

The engine revs again. A blue muscle car big enough to accommodate a seven-foot woman who spends a lot of time listening to music in there.

“Do you see that?” Beck asks Mrs. Nelson. She’s backing up. Toward Kit.

“See what, dear?”

But Beck is scared of something in that dark corner of the home. She lifts a finger.

And the finger is crushed.

“BECK!” Kit screams.

Beck screams too.

Kit reaches for her, takes her by the shoulders, turns her around to talk to her, to tell her they have to leave this house.

Just as Beck’s shoulders cave in.

Mrs. Nelson screams.

And her scream mingles with the engine as Kit watches the darkness materialize, transform, from floor to ceiling.

Daphne isn’t only visible now, she’s facing Kit.

She lifts her bare hands as wind from an open window pulls her greasy hair aside, showing Kit her face.

In full.