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Molly approached the town square one street over from Main. She slowed to catch her breath and cut through a narrow alley that should dump her out right by the sheriff’s office. Her skin crawled as she plunged into the crack between the two buildings. The shade trapped between them was cool—the lingering nighttime darkness not yet chased off by the rising sun.

Molly berated herself for her childish terror, but picked up the pace again. The tickling sensation of having something awful right at her back resurrected a nostalgic fear she once harbored for Parsona’s cargo bay. When she was young, she used to run from her bedroom to the cockpit, sprinting ahead of the monsters to the safety of her father’s lap. The sudden recollection clawed at her breath in a way the running couldn’t. Molly burst out of the alley, gasping, tears in her eyes as she remembered the many hours she’d spent curled up against his belly while he spoke softly to himself, his voice muffled by his sealed helmet, his hand always moving up and down her back or smoothing her hair.

“That’s her right there!”

The outburst startled that skittish memory back into the folds of Molly’s brain. The accusatory words had arrived as well-aimed as any bullet, the way utterances can often cut through the din of so much background noise. Molly turned, her ears attuned to the fact that the speaker had been looking right at her as he yelled it.

There, behind the bars on the sheriff’s window, she found two eyes peering right back at her. A hand stuck out between the bars and pointed, the finger trembling with excitement. “That’s the one!”

Molly turned to look behind herself, to see if there was someone else the finger could be indicating. When she turned back, the sheriff loomed before her, seizing her with strong hands and removing any doubt.

“Hey, wait a sec—!”

The sheriff pulled her arm up tight behind her and force-marched her the last few steps she had intended to take anyway. Molly automatically resisted, pushing back against him as he manhandled her forward and through the door.

“Fine piece of detective work there, Sheriff Browne.”

“That’s enough out of you,” the sheriff said to a prisoner in the far cell.

“What’s going on?” Molly asked. She felt cuffs snap down around her wrists before she was handed off to a deputy, who nodded politely and tipped his hat before escorting her toward one of the empty cells. “Am I being arrested?”

“Assault and battery, ma’am.”

The deputy smiled, winked, and dipped his chin. His accusation and flirtations didn’t mix well.

“Do what?” Molly looked down at her manacled hands, as if to con-firm the bizarre turn of events.

The deputy pushed her into the cell and slid the door shut with a bang. He then reached inside and unlocked the cuffs before pulling them out through the bars. Molly watched the bizarre charade of bureaucratic inefficiency and felt herself becoming detached from the entire scene. It had to be happening to someone else. She peered past the deputy to the sheriff, who was looking her up and down.