In the morning, I slept through my alarm but was relieved to see that Kirsten had texted me back at around four a.m. She promised to light the candles and chant the words of protection for Mischa and her family as soon as she arrived at the bookstore that morning, but urged me to buy more supplies as soon as possible. I can’t promise that my version will be as effective as yours, she texted me, reiterating her belief that somehow I had more control over witchcraft than she did.

I fired off a text message to Henry apologizing for missing his FaceTime request, showered, and quickly peeled the eggs I’d boiled the night before. I placed the broken shells in a Ziploc bag, slipped that into my tote bag along with the other items I’d bought for Mrs. Robinson, and dashed off to school.

Throughout the day, a powerful feeling of impending doom followed me around like a shadow. I attributed it to my most recent conversations with Mischa and Trey, but this felt different than just a general sense of looming danger. This felt much more urgent, much more targeted at… me. By lunchtime, as I tucked myself away at the end of the table where I always ate alone outside, I had started to get the sensation that I was playing hide-and-go-seek with someone, or something, and they were getting closer to finding me.

Ms. Hernández stared at me patiently during our weekly appointment from her seat across from mine. I’d already told her—probably unconvincingly—that there wasn’t much going on in my life. “Really? Nothing? How’s Trey?”

“Fine.”

“You seem awfully quiet today. But I can see the wheels turning in your head. You look like you’ve chewed through your lower lip too. You can trust me, McKenna. If there’s something going on, I’m here to listen.”

I forced a smile, imagining a world where I could unload all of my normal teenage problems on her. This wasn’t it. “Nope. Everything’s, you know. The usual.”

During chemistry, my lab partner kept shooting me dirty looks as I checked my phone every ten seconds or so. I was certain that I was going to receive a text from Mischa, Kirsten, or my mom, informing me that some kind of tragedy had occurred.

As I waited for the bus, I gave in and texted Mischa. It was still only lunchtime in Wisconsin, so I figured she’d reply quickly since there was no way she’d already be at the gym for practice. What’s up? I wrote, not wanting to let on that I was more worried than usual. It was better that she had no clue about the candles and my failure to light them that morning.

The bus was later than it had ever been before, and Mischa didn’t reply. As a distraction, I popped my earbuds in my ears and was scrolling through my apps on my phone in search of Spotify when I heard high-pitched static. Even though I wasn’t listening to any audio, I tapped my volume + button several times until the static was loud enough to hurt my ears, and then I heard it: that wind sound again. Wisconsin storm wind—with an earsplitting, high-pitched whistle at the top and the threat of destruction roaring at lower octaves.