She’s seen stuff like that on TV, too. Scary stuff. Ghosts and demons and, for Malorie, worst of all, creatures.

The inexplicable kind, the ones that don’t fit neatly into boxes like vampires or werewolves, goblins or ghouls. It’s the abstractions that scare her deeply, for she has no reference for these.

“Go away,” she says. Then, “Please.”

Because who knows? Maybe whatever inches closer will listen to her just as Mom and Dad will not. Maybe whatever is out here with her will honor her wishes. Maybe, maybe, maybe—

“Mal.”

She leaps to standing, arms out, ready to box whatever’s close, a thing that must’ve watched her run away, followed her to the far end of the property.

“Can I come in?”

Her instinct is to say no, no, but she recognizes the voice.

“I’m not in the mood for a lecture, Dad.”

It’s almost like she can hear him smiling, just past the trees, in the dark.

“And I promise not to give you one,” Sam Walsh says.

Then the trees are parting and, for a second, she can see the sky, see there’s some light left, and Dad is painted purple and orange with the setting sun as he steps into the clearing and is swallowed by the very darkness she stands in.

“So,” he says. “This is a neat little place. I’ve never actually come in here. Didn’t realize it made a little room like this.”

Malorie thinks of it as hers, already, a clubhouse, a fort, a place where only people who think like she does are allowed entrance.

“I get it,” Dad says. “And I respect the hell out of what you’re asking for.”

She doesn’t know if she should trust this. Does he really get it? Does Mom?

“Yeah, well, why can’t I read Mom’s book then?”

“You can,” Dad says. “Any time you want to. Even right now.”

“I can?”

“Of course. You can even do a book report on it. But you gotta write about the other one, too.”

“Why?”

“Because,” Dad says, his silhouette comforting in the small cold space, “there’s a way to do both things at once.”

“Both?”

“Yes. A way to follow the rules and break them at the same time. Some people would call it ‘paying your dues,’ you know, you read the kids’ book so you can read the other one. But I’ve never liked that phrase. To me it’s more like, hey, you can actually learn something, even something big, by doing the things you don’t think you should have to. Like mowing the lawn. You think I wanna do that every week? But meanwhile, every time I mow the lawn my mind wanders and I end up happier for having done it.”

“But, Dad…”

“What?”

“I’m too big for that book.”