First Maxwell lost his dad in what she thought was the most horrific way possible; now he was losing his mother. His sister was only seven years old.

Vera refused to let this town devour another family.

This town…

What was wrong with this town?

Her eyes felt heavy, and she struggled against her exhaustion, gripping her phone. She forced her lids open, but sleep soon swaddled her tight.

In her dream, he’s wearing coveralls the color of dried noonday mud. A scratched white hard hat is firm on his head, shielding the feral look in his eyes. His pupils are too large, but his crew members don’t notice. It’s another day on the job. Vera can feel their complacency.

A man struggles with a jackhammer, Hulk-like muscles straining as sweat soaks his stained white T-shirt. Cars pull into the lot beside the workers, a line forming down the block.

He strides past. Vera knows his face. It’s been in the news.

He says he needs to enter the building, check the pressure before they disconnect the sensors and replace old pipes. No one stops him. He belongs here.

He cuts through the crowd in the lobby forming two messy queues beneath a sign that reads Tickets. A concession stand displays clear plastic cups full of ice and pink lemonade. The air smells of chocolate chip cookies. How can she smell that?

A frenzy of basketball sneakers squeaks in the distance. Vera’s heart encrusts in ice. She knows what’s about to happen; so does the man, yet calm emanates from his pores.

He descends the gritty concrete steps to the basement, and his dilated pupils cut across the dank room. The pressure gauge, it calls to him.

He approaches the round device, a white clocklike dial with crimson tick marks attached to a thick copper pipe. Its needle is steady and accurate.

He knows what he must do.

No! Vera mentally screams. Stop! Please!

A phone rings.

He doesn’t react.

Stop! Don’t do this! These people, they’re innocent!

The phone keeps trilling, quick melodic bursts. It sounds urgent. No, it feels urgent.

Where is it?

Who is it?

He lifts a bulky metal wrench high above his head, prepared to hammer down on the gas gauge, his muscles bulging.

No!

The phone screams.

Someone should answer.

No, she should answer.

The call is for her.

Vera blinked open her eyes and found herself standing in front of her rustic basement door, her arm outstretched, fingers reaching for the scratchy brass knob.

Her hand jerked back.

What just happened?

She swung in all directions. She stood in the kitchen, lit by silvery moonlight wedging through the horizontal blinds. The sun had yet to rise.

Did she sleepwalk?

She’d never done that. Ever.

And to the basement door?

Do not open that door, do not touch that door, and do not break the seal of the blessings. It was the family mantra.

Her heart stuttered as she fell back a step, disoriented. How close had she come to unleashing a den of evil onto the world?