Now, nearly 365 days had passed since Brian’s death, but it might as well have been three or three thousand; the wound would always be fresh.

“You know how much I care about you and your mom. What you’re going through is awful.” Chelsea lightly touched Samantha’s hand. “But those people are the walking dead.”

“No, they’re not.” Samantha scoffed.

“I don’t even know what you’re talking about,” said Vera. Given her bookshelves practically needed a rolling ladder, she was surprised she didn’t recognize the cover.

“Yes, you do!” Chelsea said. “It’s that self-help crap all over town. You know the posters, with the eclipsed sun? They’re all black and yellow, and way too dramatic. It was started by the Durands.” Chelsea whispered the name like cancer.

“Oh, that group!” Vera’s eyes lit with recognition.

Seven years ago, a gas explosion at the community center killed eighteen people. It was the worst tragedy to ever strike Roaring Creek. It was accidental; at least, that’s what most people believed. But there was one gas works employee whose remains were found inside the building—Seth Durand. An investigation determined his “human error” may have caused the explosion, but there was no definitive proof either way. Still, saying Seth Durand three times in a mirror while spinning in a circle was a popular activity at Roaring Creek sleepovers. (Not that Vera had ever been to one.)

Despite that, his son, Anatole, had an immense following. He started a group whose members were identified by matching yellow hats; Vera was fuzzy on the details. From what she remembered, Anatole had been twelve years old and on the brink of death from some terminal disease the day his dad died in the explosion. Then, against all odds, the boy lived.

“That family is twisted,” said Chelsea, unknowingly echoing exactly what was said about Vera her whole life. “I don’t know why anyone would take advice from him.”

“Because he survived. Amid all that tragedy, he lived, and now he’s dedicated his life to helping the people his father hurt.” Samantha sounded impressed.

“Oh, don’t tell me you’re getting into this!” Her girlfriend yanked away her hand.

“No.” Samantha shifted awkwardly. “I’m not buying a yellow hat or anything, but my mom spent five hundred dollars on a seminar about grief and ‘self-actualization,’ which I thought was nuts, but she said it really helped.”

“Self-actualization? What does that even mean?” Chelsea’s face twisted.

“Finding your potential,” Vera explained. She’d read a few self-help books in her day. But five hundred dollars?

“No, it means joining the Manson Family,” Chelsea mocked.

“Shut up!” Samantha nudged her shoulder. She was smiling, but still, she shoved the book into her bag.

“Okay, back to Old Spooky McSpookerson.” Chelsea crumpled her trash. “When does he get discharged? Because I don’t wanna serve him any time soon.”

“I think it was supposed to be in two days, but who knows now.” Vera shrugged.

“Well, if he goes Grim Reaper–crazy on me, I’m busting out the garlic.”