We slowed our pace as we stepped into the alleyway between the single schoolhouse, currently unoccupied as evening drew close, and the town’s general store, which closed at five p.m. each day. I took a deep breath when we reached the end of the alley and rounded the corner onto the town’s main street. It was quiet this time of day—children home from school, chores and tasks completed, people preparing for the night. Tucking into their homes, doors and windows locked, as the law required.

Just because we were protected from the Fury didn’t mean temptations weren’t everywhere.

I tried my best to squash the uneasy feeling in my stomach as we walked openly down the sidewalk toward home, located south of Haven Valley’s town center. A dozen buildings lined either side of the only main road. The tiny town had been built by a mining company in the early 1980s, complete with a stretch of train tracks north of town that were never completed. They’d abandoned the compound twenty years later, leaving most of the buildings, the tracks with several old cars, and some rusted equipment.

Following Sylous’s visit, our community had purchased the land from the mining company, restored most of the buildings, and built new residences that suited our needs. The tracks and train cars were a good ways beyond the town perimeter and out of sight.

No building stood taller than four stories. All the structures had simple matching asphalt-shingled roofs, white trim, white shutters and white doors. Simple colors: tans, browns, a few shades of blue. Calming and familiar.

Everything besides the homes, the small farm, the fresh spring-water well, and the Chapel stood adjacent to the two-thousand-foot stretch of the double-lane paved road. A road that started and ended in unfinished edges. It looked as if the mining company had laid asphalt for one small chunk, then changed its mind. Not that it was of any consequence to Haven Valley. We had no use for roads. The sidewalks were nice though. They kept the dust off your shoes so they didn’t need to be scrubbed . . .

Oh no! My shoes! They were filthy! If someone saw my shoes they might ask questions. If they asked questions I might have to lie. If I lied . . .

I couldn’t heap sin upon sin by lying.

I hadn’t even considered the possibility of being caught from the appearance of my shoes. How foolish of me. Hadn’t I been taught to see the potential for danger everywhere?

I shifted my eyes to Jamie’s shoes. His were even worse. Much worse!

“What?” Jamie asked softly.

“What if someone sees our shoes?” I whispered.

“Shoes?”

“We have to get home!” I said, fixing my eyes on our destination. Four rows of matching homes, several dozen in total, capped the south side of Haven Valley and housed the residents—nearly one hundred now.