Vera smiled as she eyed Igloo Ice Cream nestled next to Must Love Books, her typical Saturday-night suitors. It was Wednesday, which meant Janet was managing the bookshop and likely about to finish the new Nora Roberts. Last week, she was reading Betty Friedan. The week before, she’d recommended a tome on the ethnomusicology of heavy metal music. Vera waved at her through the plate glass, and Janet returned her greeting with a smile that crinkled her eyes. See? Vera had friends.

A seagull called in the distance—a high-pitched squawk that echoed in four staccato wails, bouncing off the concrete. Gulls usually pilfered French fries during the lunch rush and gave it a rest after the sun set. The bird called again, piercing her ears. It was high in a tree. A breeze rushed in, salty and cool. The temperature dropped. Vera crossed her bare arms, shivering as she shuffled past shops.

Then the seagull swooped down, a blur of white feathers nearly slicing her nose. Vera swatted her hands, sneakers skidding to a halt. A squawk ripped from its golden beak as a baby stroller was pushed from a shop. Vera jolted, avoiding a toddler collision.

“Omigod! Sorry!” Vera blurted.

The mom adjusted the brim of her bright yellow hat, shooting her a look.

A bird just dive-bombed my head! Vera thought as the gull perched on a telephone pole, black eyes trained on her. It let out another repetitious squeal; Vera’s shoulders pushed to her ears as a car missed a stop sign.

Horns blared, and Vera spun toward the sound, catching a white SUV swerving into a crowded crosswalk. Pedestrians scattered, yelping. More drivers slammed on their brakes and laid on their horns.

“Watch where you’re going!” a driver yelled.

The white SUV peeled off, not pausing, not apologizing.

“You’re gonna get someone killed!” another screamed.

Vera’s heart thumped at the scene.

Earlier this school year, five of Vera’s classmates died in an unexplained car wreck. It wasn’t an isolated incident. Local news consistently raised alarms about the increase in vehicular deaths over the past several years. The per capita rate for Roaring Creek far exceeded the national average. So did the town’s drug problem and its rate of tragedy in general.

If you asked anyone, they’d likely say the problems in Roaring Creek began with the gas explosion. And that was probably true, just not for Vera. Aunt Tilda had been the executive director of the community center at the time, only, she wasn’t working that day. Still, she stepped down immediately after the tragedy, not because of any wrongdoing, but because she didn’t want to be near “so much darkness.” A new director handled the rebuilding, and Aunt Tilda dedicated herself to the church (even more so than before). She also became Vera’s primary caretaker when her parents were out of town, which was often.

It was Maxwell’s family whose pain was exploited on national TV. A photo of young Maxwell holding his mother’s hand while she went into labor, the baby’s father burning in the flames behind them, instantly went viral. Chloe’s birth was the miraculous moment the town, and the nation, desperately needed. But the reporters didn’t follow the aftermath. They didn’t cover the past seven years of walking depression from citizens who lost limbs, sleep, and loved ones. That wasn’t sexy. That wasn’t a “miracle.” That was just real life.