They got in the truck, Helen behind the wheel. She threw the truck into reverse before Nate even had his door closed.

“Jesus, Helen, slow down,” Nate said as she hit the gas, backing up, spinning the wheel to get them turned around, headlights illuminating their decrepit trailer, the motion-activated camera at the edge of the yard near the woods.

Helen ignored him and barreled down the driveway, barely slowing when they got to the road and she yanked the wheel to the left, the truck fishtailing a bit.

“We’re not going to be any help to Olive or her mom if we’re pinned in a wrecked truck,” Nate reminded her.

“I’ve got it, Nate,” she said. He was quiet.

The headlights turned the road into a brightly lit tunnel of thick trees, the vegetation reaching for them, everything feeling very alive, very much like it wanted to overtake them.

Three-quarters of a mile down the road, they came to the dented mailbox at the end of a long, steep drive. KISSNER was painted on the side in white paint.

Helen turned up the drive, the truck bouncing over the washouts and ruts.

They could see the house at the top, all the lights on.

“Looks like they’re home,” Nate said.

They pulled in behind a half-ton Chevy pickup. Helen cut the engine, reached for the door handle. Nate leaned over, put a hand on her arm.

“Hey,” he said. “Let’s play it cool in there, huh? Maybe Gloria—Lori—really did run off with someone. We don’t have the whole story. Maybe no one needs saving at all.”

“Yeah, maybe,” she said, opening the door and jumping out, but she knew he was wrong.

Olive was in danger. She could feel it all around her. She could practically hear Hattie’s voice screaming at her through time and space: Save her!

Helen ran for the front door. It stood open.

“Wait,” Nate ordered, catching up to Helen, pulling her back, and going in first. “Hello?” he called. “Olive? Dustin?”

Helen was right behind him. They were in a stripped-down front hall with plywood floors, bare stud walls. The living room was to their right, the kitchen to the left. All the lights were blazing. There was a table saw set up in the living room, sheets of drywall leaning against the wall, tools everywhere.

“God, it looks like our house—what’s he doing?” Nate said.

Helen shook her head. “Olive said they were doing some renovations. I had no idea…”

Nate crossed the living room, jogged up the stairs. Helen stood in the living room, heard his footsteps up above, heard him calling out, “Hello?,” and then he was back downstairs.

“No one’s here,” he said.