Margot felt sick. A cold clamminess flooded across her skin as the headache thrummed in time. Her basket was a chaotic mess of items, none of which could combine into a full meal. She didn’t care. She wanted to be home.

A store employee, crouched on the ground to unpack a box, halted his work and stared up at her as she passed. Margot, mouth dry and tacky, asked, “Painkillers?”

He mutely pointed toward the end of the aisle. She followed the rows of shampoos and hair combs until she found the small white boxes and dropped two into her basket.

As she approached the lone open checkout, she saw the mother and her curious son were in the process of paying. Margot didn’t want to cause trouble. She doubled back behind some boxes, dropping a bag of chips into her basket for something to do, and lingered there until they were processed and through the door.

“Hey,” Margot said, placing her basket on the belt. Bottles of water stood in a display of drinks. She added one to her purchase.

To her relief, the teen behind the counter showed no strong reaction to her presence. Either she hadn’t heard the rumors about the hill that seemed to be consuming everyone else in the town, or she didn’t care. Her smile was perfunctory and she didn’t try to make small talk as she bagged the goods.

The headache was like a drum. Margot leaned on the counter, card clasped in one hand, as she waited for her total. Then she hauled the bags up to her chest and moved through the door, silently cursing even the short distance between the shop and her car.

In the driver’s seat, Margot tore the plastic off one of the boxes of painkillers, snapped two out, and unscrewed the bottle of water. She washed them down, then leaned back, head against the headrest, eyes closed, as she waited for her thundering heart to calm.

Kant warned me there were rumors about the hill. I had no idea it would be like this. She squinted her eyes open. A family crossed the road ahead of her. The father said something, and all four heads turned in her direction. Neither they nor Margot tried to smile.

How did my parents cope? Did they get stared at like this every time they came in to shop?

No, she realized. She was new. In a town this size, that would make her a curiosity just on its own.

Her parents’ deaths must have been newsworthy. Both owners of a prominent business dead in one night. No matter what explanations the mortician offered, people would want to talk.

Hell, she herself was asking the same questions.

Now their only child—missing for decades—had returned. People were going to stare. It wasn’t just about the hill.

She hoped.