Zander Haaf.

Yes, the Zander Haaf. The one who my antifriend, Callie, had been freaking out about at the state fair one year ago. Zander Haaf. Aka, the guy who every girl in all four Lincoln high schools was obsessed with, in love with, and engaged to marry in their imaginations.

And he emptied that seat next to him . . . just for me.

Chapter 16

I am just about to get into the second phase of that particularly vivid memory when the house begins to show itself through the trees. The construction guys are hard at work in the back, the sounds of hammers and some kind of power tool breaking into my heartwarming memory. Their hard hats roam this way and that like yellow ladybugs.

It occurs to me that I haven’t really bonded with “the guys” at this point. They probably don’t realize I have terrible social anxiety. I wonder if I should explain this to them. But it seems a bit much. I mean, it assumes they care, which they probably don’t. Also, there’s something strange about them, something kind of on autopilot.

In any case, I’m happy to have them there, making all that racket. Normally, of course, I would be up in arms about the constant noise but, really, it’s better than the perpetual silence that settles over the place at night. It’s also a lot better than that mysterious scratching I was telling you about. You know, the scratching that I obviously imagined.

I notice something on my way up the path, passing by the white construction truck of the contractor, Baseball Hat Mike. In the back of this truck, there in the back seat, is a duffel bag full of baseball equipment. But the gloves are a bit small. Like, kids’ size. Ah! He does coach Little League.

Of course he does.

I notice the name on one of the uniforms. It says the “Southside Sea Cucumbers.” I am sorry but I have to find out which of these Little Leaguers came up with that name so I can give them a trophy.

I wish my curiosity had led me only to that quaint and comforting fact. But, alas, the world is a cold and unfeeling place. My gaze goes from the sweet Sea Cucumbers uniform to something else, something much more sinister.

An ax.

Yes, of course it’s perfectly natural Baseball Hat Mike would have an ax. He’s a contractor. I mean, what if he has to fell a tree in the line of duty? It could happen, right?

But there is something about it. Something that stops me in my tracks. Like the ax has meaning. Like there is something I should know about that ax. Or something I should remember. The cool steel of its blade seems to wink at me.

“Everything okay over here?”

I look up and there he is, Baseball Hat Mike. I guess he’s probably wondering why I am peering into his truck and having a strange mental dissonance over its contents.