A text message arrived from Clark: Still driving.

He responded: Same.

Joel thought about Clark’s mom, about the time the woman had told him to kiss a piece of gold—“Real gold,” Margo had insisted. “Not that cheap shit your mother drags out on game nights”—to keep the devil away. What a strange world that lady must have lived in if the devil himself was only ever a few steps down the hall.

And what a world Joel lived in now. Her world. Because when he considered the eyes that had watched him at the park ten years ago, when he thought of whatever had stepped out of his car last night, when he took stock of all that he’d seen and heard this week, what answer was he left with?

That Margo might have been right all along.

Another message came from Kimbra Lott:

no word on that bright lands place—been keeping it low-key but so far nobody knows shit (which is maybe weird by itself??) will keep you posted.

When Joel had texted her late last night to ask Kimbra about the “White Lands boys” that she’d mentioned earlier in the evening, the girl had said yes, she’d probably misheard KT when he’d mentioned them over the summer. Last night, Kimbra had sounded eager to continue helping Joel, even though KT had already been found, safe and somewhat sound in Dallas, and for the life of him Joel still couldn’t guess why.

Not for the first time he felt apprehensive about asking Kimbra to play spy for him. If his suspicions were correct and this secret place—whatever it was—had something to do with Dylan’s death, then there was no reason someone might not kill again to keep it hidden.

Joel wrote:

Saw KT. He’s ok, not very talkative. I think you should stop asking around about this. Something bad is going on.

The unmarked road on which he’d been traveling petered out at a muddy pond. A thin band of gravel led to the southwest, off into more nowhere. To the north, however, far in the distance, Joel spotted something odd shimmering in the heat: a dense vivid block of red and green.

A few minutes later, he saw that it was a little shack tucked into a thicket of red, white and green signs. Even from yards away he knew what those signs would say. He’d seen them around town all week.

There were signs in the grass and signs in the windows, signs on the doors and pasted over the roof. MY HERD MY GLORY declared the green ones. The red ones were predictable, political, frightfully mundane. Who these signs were hoping to persuade Joel couldn’t imagine. The shack looked to be the only building for miles.

Joel parked well away, idled for a long time. Nothing moved. He dug a finger beneath the sheath of the knife on his ankle, scraping at a nasty itch that had spread since last night. Clark had offered him a gun earlier and he’d declined it, certain he would be more likely to shoot himself than someone else. Now that he’d arrived here he wished he’d taken his chances.