She pressed her face to the frosted glass when she heard voices, hoping to see inside, hoping just to catch movement of some sort. Even if it meant a terrified or irate employee bursting into the hallway to confront her, that would have been fine by Jackie. She would at least have someone to talk to.

But each door, nothing. Nothing at door 55. Nothing at door T9. Nothing at FLX-8i.7. Nothing at 2. Nothing at SUPPLIES. Nothing at 3315. Something at CTY. REC. Something small.

It was one of few doors that had meaningful lettering. She listened at first, then pushed lightly, then heavily. She tried lifting and sliding the door. She knocked. She pressed her face to the glass. She didn’t know why, but she did something she had not done at any of the other non-doors. She put her hand to the glass.

She set her palm against the glass and spread her fingers. When she lifted it away, it left its ghost upon the glass, a hand raised to say, “Stop.” Or “Come here.” Or “Hello.” Or “Help.” Or maybe only “I am here. This hand, at least, is real.”

Behind the handprint she saw a shadow approaching the glass.

“Diane?” Jackie stepped back and prepared whatever energy was left in her to flee whatever might be behind the door.

As it neared the glass, she could see that the shadow had what looked like antlers—sleek, tapered antlers from a bulbous skull.

“Diane?” Jackie asked, less hopefully.

“No,” said a voice, and the door began to crack. A yellow sliver of light split the black floor near Jackie’s feet and began to widen. Jackie could not move. The door opened and she saw.

46

“Who do you mean by ‘that man’?” said Diane.

“Troy,” said the man in the tan jacket.

“Troy,” she said.

“Diane,” he said, “let me tell you a story about Troy.”

A STORY ABOUT TROY

There once was a town called King City that was completely normal. Or it had many small abnormalities, minor secrets, moments throughout its history that didn’t quite add up, and events that no one ever talked about. And, in that way, it was completely normal.

It sat on a stretch of the 101 freeway between a town called Greenfield and a state wildlife area. This stretch of the 101 was not interesting to anyone. Citizens of King City would dispute this, because they had been born there, or had fallen in love or had gone south of the law or gone above expectations, had lived full lives along that stretch of freeway. But for most anyone else driving past on their way north or south it was nothing and then a town and then not a whole lot more.