I would go back to that part.

But I would have to be careful, because right there is where the storm went from being a good storm to being a bad one.

Chapter 40

It is night again.

I check all the doors and locks. Second, a quick scan of the windows. Third, a thorough investigation of the backyard. This hammer seems to be welded now to the palm of my hand. Letting it go is too dangerous, leaving me too vulnerable.

I am assessing the situation with the flashlight mode of my camera. This wouldn’t normally be the best time to do this, considering that it’s dark and considerably spookier than during the day. And considering everything is slightly damp.

I understand that.

But, you see, perhaps there is some sort of clue to the sudden madness of the otherwise boringly normal Mike.

It could be.

The light hits the weeds and trodden grass of the backyard, shining its spotlight on a screwdriver here, a monkey wrench there. A drill. Terrifying.

What horrible thing could be done with that drill?

I clutch the hammer tighter.

It’s not a full moon tonight, not even close. It’s a sliver of a moon, keeping the earth dark. Only the occasional hoo-hoooo of an owl to break up the silence and the sound of my breath.

The dirt hole they’ve dug looks pretty much the way it always does. No change. No progress. I tell myself there must be some complicated, logical reason for this. Permits! Isn’t that a thing? People are always going on and on about the pain, the hassle, of permits. Yes, that must be what it is.

They have, however, managed to put up a kind of temporary shed back here. A cheap thing bought from Home Depot or the like. It’s plastic but painted to look a bit like a red and white little barn.

I can’t help wondering what’s in it.

I make my way over a few uncut boards, careful with each step not to slice my foot on something grizzly, until I am just outside the fake red barn.

I try the door but it jams.

And then again.

As if something is sticking it closed from the other side. Putting weight on it.

But what could be . . . ?

I look around for something to jack it open with . . . Ah, a crowbar! That will work.

I make my way back over to the plastic barn . . . crowbar in one hand, phone with flashlight on in the other. It’s cumbersome and I’m sure I look ridiculous. But I must know!

There again, at the front door of the little barn, I insert the crowbar in the door and begin cracking it open bit by bit.

Bit by bit . . .

There . . .

Almost . . .

WHAM!

The door swings open as if setting itself free.

And I see the thing that was holding the door closed.