I didn’t trust them, so I made the arrangements myself. I chose a public place, the strip mall on Fairview Avenue, against the white-painted wall of what used to be the back of the Fairview Cinema. I picked a date and time, and called Sheffield to tell him to have the whole team there, then.

“We just got the invites for the Halloween dance,” Sheffield said. “Can I give you a bunch, when we see you? We could really use help handing them out.”

“Fine,” I said, fully intending to deposit them in the trash as soon as I was out of his eyesight.

The Halloween dance is a weird tradition in Hudson. It’s held at the high school, but it’s open to the whole town. Hosted by the football team, to thank their neighbors for their support. Two dollars a ticket, and the proceeds go to fund their end-of-season party.

“You’re the best, Ash,” he said, before I could hang up on him. The saccharine sound of his voice started my eye twitching. Ever since my accident, this has been a sure sign of a headache on its way.

I put the shoot into my calendar. I prayed it wouldn’t rain, and then I bought three giant umbrellas to cover my camera and tripod. And then I thought to myself that it might make the shots better, all of them standing in the pouring rain; it would wear down their resistance and help me get to the core of who they were—the Truth—so I prayed it would rain.

Walmart was packed. Parts of the store were shut down due to fire damage, but the rest of the place was full of people. The stink of burning plastic was almost completely gone from the air. I picked my way through the crowd, sneaking glances at every passing face. Connor’s revelation about Sheffield’s Induction Ceremony scheme had me all shaken up. Suddenly everyone was a potential arsonist or criminal.

How many of these people had done terrible things—and how many more of them had simply gone along with it when others did, or turned a blind eye?

To practice, I took pictures of my mother. Put her up against a plain beige wall.

“Don’t smile,” I said, but she kept smiling.

“Stop,” I said, maybe a little too harshly.

“Sorry, honey,” she said, laughing. “I can’t help it. It’s like a reflex at this point. Aim a camera at me and I break into an idiotic grin.”

It was a strength, really. The ability to smile through every calamity. To be calm when other people—usually my dad—were trying their best to lose their minds. Through the lens she looked like some kind of queen or diplomat. Short hair, tiny earrings, just enough makeup. Her darkness was distant, an orbiting swirl of little black stars blooming and bursting.

Distant—but I could sense it. It existed.