—Southwestern Gas confirmed the company increased the flow along the Phoenix Access pipeline as much as thirty percent in the fall of 2018. The company believes this additional pressure may have caused vibrations which—

—migraines, nosebleeds, insomnia—

—a kind of localized mania, leading to the fatal standoff between police and members of the Sequoia Crescent Cult last June—

For days, news anchors, experts, and spokespeople had been peddling a municipal report which attributed The Hum to a natural gas pipeline that ran through the desert some two miles from our neighbourhood. The official story was that Southwestern Gas had increased the flow along the pipeline the previous fall, around the time most of us first began to hear the sound, when the vibration from this increased flow had supposedly caused the foundations of buildings to rattle. All I could do was laugh. Did they really expect us to believe that everything we had endured—the headaches, the nosebleeds, the rapture, the raid, the deaths—was because of a pipeline? Did they really expect me to believe Kyle was struck by a bullet in his pelvis, and another in his neck, because of increased pressure along a natural gas pipeline? It was so achingly banal as to be almost believable. It didn’t matter if I did believe it, or if anyone did, really. I understood the function it served. Sometimes people need a myth to rally around, especially after a collective trauma. We were a neighbourhood, and a city, in need of closure.

Around a quarter past midnight I woke to the sound of Emily’s voice on the television. The screen was the only light on in the house. Emily’s face was large, in close-up. The camera cut to a wider shot, revealing her sitting beside Tom, in the studio. He was wearing a nicely pressed shirt. There was a daytime view of the city behind them; it must have been a rerun of an interview from earlier in the day. I sat upright and watched.

It was like . . . waking up from a nightmare. It felt like I had lost a year of my life, Emily said.

We were two strangers in the same house, Tom said. Well, before you started living with your sister, he said, glancing sidelong at Emily.

Do you still hear the hum? the interviewer asked her. Now that Southwestern Gas has lowered the pressure?

No, she said, shaking her head. I don’t.

Who do you blame for the deaths of Kyle Francis and Damian Barnes? Do you blame anyone?

I swallowed and closed my eyes, waiting for Emily’s reply. When it didn’t come, I opened my eyes again, and saw her staring down into her lap. Finally, she looked back up at the interviewer, her eyes glistening. As she opened her mouth, I reached for the remote and turned off the television.