I throw myself into the driver’s seat. The interior is all stained gray fabric that’s worn through in spots, that’s just like Ty’s Camaro too. I remember the rearview mirror, wrench it off, toss it out. A few car lengths away, more glass breaks, and the groan and screech of metal tells me the Being has climbed atop a car. Elliott must be trying to lose it by hiding in the rows of vehicles. I hunker down sideways in my seat, both to get myself out of the Being’s view and to access the steering column. Tools, I need tools. A screwdriver and wire strippers at a minimum. By force of habit, my hand snakes beneath the passenger’s seat, where Ty used to keep his tool bag in his car. I’m already cursing myself for wasting time checking in this stranger’s car when my fingers brush something leather. When I pull my hand out, Ty’s tool bag is in it.

I stare at the leather bag in confusion, then pull my gaze up to scan the dashboard and seats. This can’t be my brother’s car. Ty’s Camaro died last year, right after he moved me to Cisco Island. It got scrapped. We even went to the junkyard, had a little service in its honor before watching it get smashed. But then how are Ty’s tools here, in exactly the spot I’d expected them to be?

“Callahan!” comes a muffled shout. Something crashes a few rows down. “Move it!” There’s genuine fear in Elliott’s voice now, which tells me he must be about to reach his limit. At which point the Being will kill him and come for me.

I jolt into motion. Yank a screwdriver out of the bag, shakily remove the steering column’s plastic cover. Three bundles of multicolored wires fall out.

A high, reedy voice echoes eerily through the garage, lilting up and down and then up again, like a song or maybe a wolf’s howl. Goose bumps rise all over me. I’m muttering a prayer beneath my breath—I used to believe in God, and it appears I still do—but I’m not even processing what I’m saying. I was wrong before when I thought the monster’s silence was worse than any noise it could make.

I search for the battery wire. Red, it’s red. There! My hands are shaking so badly, I can barely use the wire strippers, but somehow I manage. Then I do the same to the ignition wire. Using my shirt as insulation, I twist them together.

The lights inside the car all come on. The radio starts playing “Stand by Me.”

“No, damn it, shut up,” I hiss, frantically jabbing at the off button. The sound dies. I hold my breath and slowly, heart in my throat, lift my head until I can just barely see over the dashboard.