Then, an unfathomable sound. Her mind. Her land.

And even as Kennedy’s cracked head falls to her favorite part of the cemetery, it occurs to her that Daphne is no friend.

And never was.

And the words written in the breakroom seem to crawl up the messy walls, spiders after all, they crawl everywhere in Hi-Fi Grocery, then out the front sliding doors to all of Samhattan.

Daphne Lives

The last thing she feels is sorrow. Not for herself, but for the city she was saving up money to leave.

As Kennedy Lichtenstein dies, she fears for all who call Samhattan home, and for all who know its legends by name. And she thinks,

This is not excess dirt…this is not my grave…

…it’s hers.

Kit Lamb’s Journal—Don’t Think About a

Don’t think about a blue raven.

Isn’t this what people say? That it’s impossible not to think about whatever you’re told not to think about?

Don’t think about a blue raven.

But you did, Jolly. You did.

Do you know that if Melanie or Tammy had died in any ordinary way, I’d think about their deaths every day for the rest of my life? Do you know that one day I’d be walking the streets of a city and I’d enter a restaurant and as the host asked me how many I’d think,

One. Alone. Just me. No Melanie or Tammy because they died back when we were in high school?

But…don’t think about band patches on the wings of a blue-jean raven…

Here: Don’t think about the deaths of two friends.

And definitely do not think about who killed them.

Is this fair?

I’m angry, Jolly.

I’m thinking of a blue raven. It flies from one side of my mind to the other and it perches on ledges I didn’t know I had.

There was a man in my room, Jolly. Under my bed.

Far as I know the police still think it’s him, but they’ll find out soon enough. In fact, Mom and Dad are talking about something serious downstairs and I think one of the cops from the driveway is in the house with them down there, and so maybe something happened tonight and if so, then I guess it wasn’t the man from under my bed after all.

JOLLY, guess what?

I’m thinking of the blue face of a blue raven.

It’s got long black hair and it smells like the bar and its feathers are denim and it flies from one end of my mind to the other, the sound of its wings like the sound of jeans hanging on a clothesline in a storm.

What sound does anxiety make, Jolly?

They’re talking about the cemetery downstairs. I don’t wanna know what happened. I’m afraid to look at my phone. I don’t wanna see a text from Dana saying Natasha was crushed, a text from Natasha saying the same about Dana.

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