“It’s where the darkness will take them all,” she says softly. “A crack. Where the world is thin.”

We hit a bump, and for a second we’re airborne. I brace for the landing. We strike the ground, still flying forward. Thea’s body barely jolts.

“We’re getting close,” she says.

“How do you know?”

“I feel it.”

I try to feel it, too. I don’t know what I’m waiting for. The air is cold and black and nothing feels real.

The bike tilts down another slope.

“Hold on,” says Thea.

So I do.

We plunge downward. The tick of the wheels is one continuous hiss, mixing with the shush of air in my ears. I clench my eyes and teeth and hands. Thea’s hair whips around me. I’m holding her tighter, even though I’m not sure I should. But I can’t force myself to loosen my arms.

And then, at last, the bike slows down.

The ground flattens. Thea sits upright, pushing me upright, too.

I look around.

We’re in some part of the woods that I don’t recognize. It’s old growth, though. Huge, thick trunks with huge, thick branches spear upward into the canopy. Just a little moonlight slips through. There’s a riverbed ahead of us. It’s dry, but deep, with jagged, jutting edges that make it look like a crack in stone.

It’s dark. Really dark. But I can still see that we’re the only ones here.

Thea has stopped the bike. She’s waiting with one foot braced on the ground.

“Why are we stopping here?” I drop down off the pegs. My legs are stiff, and now that I’m away from the steady warmth of Thea, I realize just how cold the night has gotten. “I don’t see anything.”

“You don’t?”

Thea climbs off the bike. She props it against the trunk of a big oak and scans the branches above us. Then, suddenly, she freezes. Her body doesn’t stiffen, but it goes perfectly still. Only her eyes keep flickering in the dark.

“What is it?” I’m whispering and I don’t know why.

“I think we’re too late,” she says.

“Why?” Now I’m scanning the branches above us, too, desperate, but I can’t see anything. Nothing but swaying branches and rustling leaves. “What is it?” I turn back to her. She’s still staring up, and all at once I’m terrified. My whole body vibrates with it. “What?” I scream.

Thea finally looks down. Her eyes meet mine. She looks at me for a long, steady second.

“Do you want to see how I see?” she asks.

“Yes,” I say, without even thinking. Because I need to know, and I have no idea what she’s going to say or do anyway, and everything is just a black, murky, horrible blank.

She steps toward me, fast. She puts her hands over my face.

“Close your eyes,” she says.

So I do. Her thumbs rest lightly on my eyelids.

And then everything explodes.

Actually, it’s just everything inside my head, but because my eyes are closed, it’s like everything has been seared apart by a blast of light.