It’s a basement. Bunk beds in one corner, with thin green military-esque blankets and pillows. A bathroom with a tiny shower. A dresser, with fresh clothing folded on top of it. A big, humming matte-black contraption in the far corner that I’m guessing is the emergency generator responsible for the electricity. And taking up half the room: rows and rows of metal shelves, all loaded with prepackaged food.

Elliott grins. “It’s a decommissioned prepper hideout. I visited it once on a Scout outing somewhere outside Madrigal, but it was years ago and I couldn’t remember exactly where it was except that it was across the street from a gas station. So I just walked into the woods hoping to find it somewhere nearby, and—here it is. Just like I remembered.”

I stare at him, aghast. “You did what?”

He takes in my expression. His smile fades. “What’s wrong? I brought us a prepper hideout just by thinking about it, for God’s sake. This is the best news we’ve had all day!”

I try to gather myself. “This is nice. Very helpful. Food, gas, electricity, locks on the doors to keep out the Beings. But have you even bothered to think about what else we can do with our thoughts? What I could do with my thoughts?” The words get louder until I’m shouting, my voice wavering under the strain. I feel like I’m going to break—the anxiety, the horror, it’s so strong it’s finally just going to snap me in half.

Elliott’s eyes narrow. “Are you threatening me?”

“No!” I’ll have to tell him. He needs to understand. I start pacing. “Look. I have OCD. Obsessive fears and compulsions that I do to try to stop my fears from coming true. I used to have to keep my keys in different pockets so I’d always know which doors were locked. Had to check doors after I locked them, to make sure they were really locked, over and over again. Three times. Five times. When things got really bad, sometimes it was all night long.” I wave at the door above us. “I tap door frames to make sure I’ll be safe in each room.”

He frowns. “I noticed you tapping the doors, but I didn’t know it was OCD. What does that have to do with anything though?”

“OBSESSIVE FEARS,” I repeat at a yell. “Didn’t you hear me? Obsessive. Meaning I can’t stop thinking about the things I’m afraid of. Like unlocked doors that will let a Being in. Or a hundred hidden mirrors that we don’t see until it’s too late. Or this whole place caving in on us, leaving us buried and suffocating. I’m very imaginative, I promise you.”

The danger finally registers for him. “Oh,” he says at last.