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Enjoy the Prologue and First Two Chapters.
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Chapter One
Crossover
If I can’t even propose properly, why would she believe I’m worth marrying?
The thought spiraled, chasing its own tail as Rick repacked the picnic bag for the third time. Or was it the fourth? Each time the zipper made its way around, a new doubt surfaced, fractal and branching: Had he packed the glasses? The napkins? Would the cheese start to sweat, destabilizing the whole aesthetic?
He sealed it again and stared at the backpack. Not a basket. He’d considered a basket—briefly. But Evan wasn’t a basket-and-blanket kind of girl. She’d see right through it. The backpack was more discreet. Practical. It made sense.
Besides, a backpack could hold anything. An unknown variable. It felt… appropriate.
He stood, fidgeted, then froze mid-movement, only realizing afterward that his right hand had begun sketching equations in the air, a derivative this time, solving for an unknown.
Except the unknown here wasn’t a number. It was a person. And she was anything but abstract.
Rick’s gaze lifted, snagged by the full-length mirror across the room. His reflection stared back at him—lean, slightly lanky, caught in the soft tilt of the glass. Jeans, navy shirt. Neat. Always neat. Presentation mattered; structure mattered. Even now, he caught himself judging the angle of his collar, the symmetry of his sleeves.
The mirror showed the rest too. Tousled hair, where fingers had plowed distracted paths. Dark circles he hadn’t noticed before, muting the blue irises.
And speaking of the eyes—Why do I look like I’m bracing for impact?
He flattened his hair with both palms—one measured swipe, then another. It didn’t help. He still looked… off-center, like a diagram smudged just enough to ruin the proof.
Chad would have made it look easy. Chad always made everything look easy. Rick’s younger brother coasted through life as if friction didn’t apply to him. Girls liked him. Coaches loved him. Professors forgave missed deadlines when he grinned just the right way.
Rick adjusted his cuffs again. Two folds. Even. Precise. A small, stubborn assertion of order.
The velvet ring box on the dresser drew his attention—and something clenched hard in his chest. Two months’ savings, transformed into gold filigree petals cupping a single diamond. Perfect, just like he’d known it would be when he had first seen it under the fluorescent lights at the Flagstaff Mall. His hand hovered for a second too long before he picked it up.
“I can’t believe I almost forgot this.”
“I can,” came Chad’s voice from the doorway.
Rick turned, and there he was: leaning against the frame, arms crossed, like the universe itself was weightless in his orbit. Twenty-one. Broad-shouldered. Annoyingly perfect physique. Hazel-eyed. A scatter of freckles across sun-darkened skin beneath unruly blond hair. The kind of grin that said Trust me—and usually, foolishly, people did.
“You know what today is,” Rick said, trying to sound cool and collected.
“Exactly why I’m surprised you didn’t notice your sleeves were uneven.”
Instinctively Rick’s hands jerked up, inspecting the cuffs. They were perfect. Of course they are.
Chad’s grin widened. “You make it too easy.”
Rick exhaled sharply through his nose. “Are you done?”
“Not even close. But I can pace myself.” Chad unfolded himself and wandered over, nodding at the bag. “Want me to take this out to the car?”
Rick hesitated. He didn’t trust anyone with cargo this delicate—but it was Chad, and trust, Rick reminded himself, was part of the equation too. He handed it over. “Carefully.”
“I’ll cradle it like a prototype.” Chad’s tattoo caught the light as he took the strap—circuit lines or schematic diagrams inked onto the bicep that strained his short sleeve, as intricate and inexplicable as the guy himself.
Rick watched him vanish down the hall. His footsteps faded, and with them, the static tension that had filled the room.
The silence left behind was, unexpectedly, centering.
Rick turned back to the mirror.
The man staring back was still braced, still tight—but there was something steadier in the set of his shoulders now too.
Resolve, maybe.
He pocketed the ring box and grabbed his keys from the nightstand tray. His thumb brushed over the key chain—the pi symbol Evan had given him—and a warm pulse answered in his palm. She believes in you.
“Okay,” he whispered. “You’ve got this.”
He stepped out into the hallway, shutting the door behind him with a soft, deliberate click.
Across the hall, Chad’s room was a battlefield of laundry and tangled bedding. But the workbench against the far wall was meticulous—a single half-assembled device waiting atop it like a riddle in mechanical form.
Gravity, kinetics, inertia. It had been electrogravitics last month. Maybe flux dampening now.
Or just another joke. Rick couldn’t quite tell.
He tore his eyes away and followed the steady tick-tick-tick of the mantel clock down the hall, into the morning that was already starting to skew strangely.
Toward his date with destiny.
Chad bounded down the stairs two at a time, backpack slung loosely over one shoulder, heading for the living room.
A small grin played at the corners of his mouth.
Pushing Rick’s buttons never got old—especially when they were so well labeled. Just now had been particularly satisfying: Rick wound up tighter than ever, all stiff edges and anxious eyes, a dog chasing its tail. Chad would have to thank Evan for that later.
He skirted the couch and spotted his father hunched over the mantel clock, glasses perched at the tip of his nose like a warning sign. Albert’s finger hovered, accusingly, near the minute hand. “Have you been messing with this again?”
“Nope,” Chad said casually, already halfway to the front door. “Learned my lesson.” Twelve years ago.
The antique clock had been a wedding gift to his grandparents. Sentimental, irreplaceable, and strictly off-limits. Chad had discovered its sacredness early, courtesy of one too many curious screwdrivers and the sharp sting of consequences that followed. He wasn’t nine anymore. Give him ten minutes now with his full tool kit, and it would run perfectly—better, even. Not that anyone would notice. Or trust him.
Out front, he stashed the pack in the trunk, alongside the rest of Rick’s meticulously organized gear, then headed back inside. Albert was still fussing over the clock, as if the mechanism had offended him personally.
“What’s wrong with it?” Chad asked offhandedly, stopping nearby.
Blue-gray eyes—just like Rick’s—flicked to Chad with mild accusation. “It’s running slow.”
Of course. Imperfection topped the list of things their father couldn’t tolerate. Chad was suddenly aware of the comforting weight of the Swiss Army knife in his cargo pants pocket. He could fix it—he could fix almost anything. But that wasn’t the point.
Rick came downstairs, perfectly composed, exactly as he wanted the world to see him. Chad knew better. That right hand in the jeans pocket would be stroking the pi key chain like a rosary bead. Rick was always one breath away from imploding. But never in front of the parental units. Never where it counted.
Their mother, Alice, emerged from the kitchen, towel in hand, an aroma of ginger trailing in her wake. She adjusted the little wooden cross by the staircase, then smiled warmly at Rick. “All set for your big day?” she asked, kissing him lightly on the cheek.
Rick nodded stiffly.
“She’d be a fool to say no,” she said, giving his shoulder a small squeeze.
“And that girl is no fool,” Albert added solemnly, nodding as if bestowing a blessing.
Chad bit back the words crowding his tongue. Evan’s intelligence was unquestioned—simply because she worked in a bookstore. Never mind that it was filled with tarot decks and incense rather than literary classics. Rick didn’t care, and their parents didn’t know. For once, Chad kept quiet.
“I’ve planned it as well as I can,” Rick admitted, adjusting his cuffs again. “I just hope I don’t mess it up.”
“You won’t,” Alice said firmly, disappearing into the kitchen and returning with a carefully wrapped plate of cookies. She handed it to Rick with a reverence usually reserved for sending knights off to the Crusades. “The Lord’s blessed you with that gift.”
Chad almost laughed, bitterly. If it were him, he’d have been lucky to get a sandwich and a quick pat on the shoulder.
Alice brushed past him, touching his arm lightly. “And you, Chad—try to stay out of trouble. Follow Rick’s lead, for once.”
“Sure thing, Mom.” Chad’s voice was easy, humor covering the ache beneath. “Rick’s got perfect plans. I’ve got comic relief covered.”
His parents chuckled, oblivious.
Inside, the dismissal landed heavily. They never saw him. Not really. Rick was the mathematician, the prodigy—he had taken after their father, then outpaced him. Chad was background noise, the guy who fixed things, bulldozed across fields of opponents, or threw balls through hoops. They attended games dutifully, cheering without really understanding what they cheered for. Support without connection.
Some things were just easier to laugh off.
Scooping up his CamelBak before following his brother outside, Chad turned his face into the breeze, the sharp scent of ponderosa pine pulling him out of himself. Above, the San Francisco Peaks loomed like guardians, Agassiz’s summit brushing the sky like a snow-dusted pyramid. It helped. Reminded him he was built for days like this.
A shadow flickered briefly across the mountainside and made him look for rain clouds. The sky remained unblemished. Chad’s pulse skipped, unease crawling up his spine, but he shook it off. Probably just my mood, he thought. Always being stuck in Rick’s shadow.
At the car, Chad set his backpack in the rear seat, then hesitated, glancing back at Rick. His brother stood tall, composed, ready to conquer the day. Chad envied him that clarity, briefly considered speaking up—sharing any of the thousand small things he’d kept bottled inside. But the moment slid away, disappearing, as always, into the silence between them.
He climbed into the passenger seat and leaned his forehead against the cool window, letting his breath fog the glass. Rick had his perfect plans. Chad had the background.
What made him think today would be any different?
No, he thought, watching his reflection fade against the passing scenery. This is Rick’s big day. Anything else can wait.
Evan stood by the smudged window of her tiny apartment, eyes tracing the parking lot below, searching for the sleek black sheen of Rick’s Mazda. She couldn’t explain the unease prickling beneath her skin. It had been there since she’d woken up that morning—quiet, insistent, lingering just beyond her conscious grasp. Maybe it was the dream she’d had, vivid and unsettling. Maybe it was something else, something less tangible. She rarely let dreams linger, especially ones she couldn’t unravel. Probably just anticipation, she decided. She knew what Rick was planning.
I’ll say yes, she thought. But he’ll have to earn it.
Her faint reflection in the window grinned impishly back—green eyes bright, watchful, auburn hair pulled loosely into place, stubborn strands curling gently against her cheekbones. She smiled softly. She was easy to read, even to herself.
They made such a strange pairing. Rick was all equations and precision, carefully composed, everything planned in advance. She drifted through life on feelings and instinct. He pressed his shirts and wore neatly ironed jeans. She draped herself in shawls and couldn’t care less about makeup. Yet she didn’t love him despite their differences; it was because of them.
Rick anchored her, quietly but firmly, giving her stability in a world that spun a little too freely beneath her feet.
She glanced back at her shoebox of a space—an efficiency apartment barely big enough to breathe in, let alone live. The kitchenette gleamed, mostly from neglect. Scarves cascaded over the chair. It wasn’t much. She hadn’t had the opportunity to accumulate more in the few years she could remember. But it was hers. And it mattered.
A flash of polished black caught her eye. She wrapped herself in a shawl and stepped into the crisp morning. Rick’s car, immaculate even now, slipped neatly between the lot’s lines. Both brothers got out. Chad lingered, leaning against its open door, while Rick moved toward her with earnest purpose.
He always did.
“Need me to carry anything?” Rick asked.
She raised a playful eyebrow. “How could I? Kind of hard to pack when you’ve kept your plans a secret.”
He flushed slightly, sheepish, but then he really saw her. His gaze softened, shedding the calculations that usually shadowed his eyes, leaving only warmth. “You look perfect,” he said.
Her heart skipped, just slightly.
She caught the small motion—Rick’s thumb caressing the pi symbol in his hand. The irrational number had been a joke when she gave the key chain to him, but he’d cherished it quietly ever since, endearing in his earnestness.
Then Evan turned her gaze toward Chad, who still leaned casually against the passenger door, hair tousled as though by choice rather than neglect. His grin carried easy sarcasm. “I didn’t realize we’d need supervision today,” she said lightly.
Chad shrugged expansively. “You’d both be lost without me. Rick’s hopeless with maps. And GPS—”
“Back seat,” Rick said swiftly, silencing Chad with a look that was equal parts brotherly irritation and genuine affection. “My lady gets the front.”
Evan laughed softly, letting Rick guide her gently by the hand, a chivalrous and slightly silly gesture that warmed her more than she’d admit.
Birdsong rose around them as if on cue.
Fifteen minutes later, Highway 89 stretched ahead, guiding them northward. The ponderosas thinned, replaced gradually by dark volcanic stone. Sunset Crater loomed—red and black, unchanged by centuries. It stirred something deep in Evan’s chest, unsettling yet familiar.
Rick glanced at her, seemingly sensing her shift in mood. “Everything okay?”
“Just a dream,” she admitted reluctantly. “A volcano—not this one, but still.”
His concern sharpened, eyes narrowing. “Something bad?”
“Not you,” she assured him quickly. “Just… vivid. More vivid than usual.” She kept back the lingering nausea, the sense of reality slipping just slightly out of sync since waking. Flashes like this weren’t uncommon—handy in tarot readings, useless and unnerving in her personal life.
From the back, Chad offered his own insight. “Sunset Crater’s small potatoes. Did you know the San Francisco Peaks are actually the remnants of one huge volcano? When it erupted, it flung debris into space.”
Evan’s lips quirked faintly. Of course Chad knew that.
“I did,” she answered. “The Hopi say the Peaks are home to the kachinas.”
Even this far away, the Peaks dominated the horizon, starkly majestic, white-capped and timeless.
“It feels spiritual somehow, doesn’t it?” she murmured.
Chad’s shrug was audible. “I guess. I just think it’s cool you can ski up there in the morning and water-ski down on Lake Mary in the afternoon.”
Classic Chad.
Comfortable silence settled among them as Rick drove, Chad scrolled his phone, and Evan absorbed the changing scenery. Juniper scented the air, dust and dry earth replacing pine. She noticed the sign for Sunset Crater go by, but Rick pulled left, toward the mountains.
She blinked in surprise. “We’re going to Lockett Meadow?”
He smiled, gentle triumph in his eyes. “You mentioned once that you wanted to see the Inner Basin.”
Months ago. She’d forgotten she’d even said that. But Rick hadn’t. Her heart softened.
“Maybe you’ll spot one of your kachinas,” Chad teased from behind. “As long as the pond’s not bubbling.”
She ignored him, smiling faintly.
The dirt road twisted upward, threading through pines and aspens. Rick slipped into tour-guide mode, carefully describing routes, viewpoints, and geology. His over-explanation, meticulous and earnest, had once irritated her—and occasionally still did. But it was also reassuring. He wanted everything perfect. For her.
She watched him closely, sunlight softening his profile, and felt her unease ebbing gently.
“I trust you,” she said quietly, sincerely.
Rick’s fingers brushed the key chain again where it danced next to the steering column, a subtle reassurance. Evan leaned back, breathing easier, gaze drifting contentedly out the window.
The road wound upward through the ponderosa forest, a rugged ribbon of dirt threading around tree trunks and steep slopes, sun dappling the windshield as though through parted fingers. Rick kept both hands steady on the wheel, even as his index finger traced idle circles over the worn leather grip. Behind them, civilization had dropped away—miles of highway replaced by the soft crunch of gravel, jarring potholes, and a sense of solitude.
Then the view unfolded before them.
Lockett Meadow spread wide within the protective curve of the Inner Basin. A green carpet brushed lightly with wildflowers, half a mile across—white, purple, yellow blooms bobbing gently, uncertain as to whether winter had fully surrendered. A glassy pond mirrored the sky, impossibly still, holding its breath.
Rick navigated into the small, primitive campground without hesitation. He’d scouted it weeks before, when the road had finally become passable by anything less capable than a four-wheel drive. He knew the perfect spot: ideal angles, the best proximity to open sky and meadow views, just enough trees to provide shade. There were only two other cars parked there—absolutely ideal.
Evan leaned forward in her seat, her green eyes widening with delight, tiny flecks of gold appearing briefly, as they always did when her emotions ran deepest.
So far, so good. Rick exhaled slowly, willing the butterflies in his stomach to settle.
He found a space beneath an aspen just starting to unfurl its first delicate leaves. Stepping out, he inhaled deeply. The air felt impossibly clean and still, as if almost holding itself back for fear of intruding. No wind stirred, no insects buzzed. Just the gentle metallic clicks of the car cooling.
Don’t overthink it, he told himself. Let her be the poet.
Evan got out next, her shawl catching gently around her shoulders. She walked a few paces toward the meadow before glancing back, eyebrows arched curiously above sparkling eyes. “So… what’s your plan?”
Rick opened the car’s hatch, revealing the carefully packed picnic backpack. He paused just long enough to slip the velvet ring box discreetly from his pocket into a side pouch, then reconsidered the campground tables. “Let’s head toward the pond,” he suggested, hoping it came across as casual. “Too beautiful out for shade.”
Her smile was knowing, amused, effortlessly reading him as she always did. Rick hoisted the pack onto one shoulder, offering his hand. Evan’s fingers slid comfortably between his, her free hand briefly touching the golden circle of the Möbius strip pendant at her neck—a quiet, habitual reassurance. He’d never learned its origin, and she couldn’t recall it either. But she wore it always, a mystery she carried openly.
In the back seat, Chad stretched, pulling out his own battered daypack. “That’s my signal,” he announced cheerfully. “Trail’s calling. Might reach snow level; might not.” He flashed a teasing grin. “You two behave—don’t do anything I wouldn’t appreciate.”
Rick shot him a glance that should have wilted him where he stood.
Chad waved once, striding briskly toward the Inner Basin Trailhead, boots crunching over gravel until the sound faded.
Rick and Evan walked slowly across the meadow. Midway, Evan’s hand shifted gently from his, sliding comfortably around his waist, drawing them close together. He felt a quiet joy in that simple proximity.
They chose a spot carpeted with wild crocuses and shooting-star blossoms. Rick spread the blanket deliberately, unpacking the backpack with practiced precision: silverware, plates, linen napkins—all selected with care. Evan laughed softly as she examined each thoughtfully selected item, clearly pleased.
Worth every penny, he thought, relaxing slightly.
They ate in companionable silence, savoring smoked gouda, rosemary crackers, fresh strawberries, and chocolate truffles. Rick’s pulse quickened each time his fingers brushed the hidden side pocket, unable to find a moment to retrieve the box unnoticed. He forced himself to remain patient.
“You enjoying yourself?” he asked finally, aiming for casual but feeling it miss slightly.
Evan’s smile was indulgent, eyes shimmering gently. “Very much.”
He passed her another cracker, hesitating before speaking. “You’ve never been here before, right?”
Immediately he winced inwardly, recalling their earlier conversation. Worse, she wouldn’t remember beyond three years ago. But Evan only tilted her head gently, letting the slipup pass without comment.
“I expected more birds,” she said instead, her voice contemplative as she glanced around. “It’s too quiet.”
“The quiet’s nice,” he responded automatically, though now he heard it too—the unnatural stillness. He cleared his throat, his hand hovering near the hidden pocket, pulse quickening. Ease into it. No rush.
Evan watched him, her head tilted slightly in that familiar, expectant way—attentive but patient, gently amused.
“So, uh…” Rick began, then hesitated when her expression changed abruptly.
Evan stiffened slightly, brow furrowing as she scanned the trees, the pond, the meadow.
“What is it?” he asked, instantly alert, worry prickling.
She shook her head faintly. “Something feels… wrong,” she murmured. “Like we’re… I don’t know… inside a painting. A dream I can’t quite wake up from.”
Rick’s heart sank slightly, though outwardly he straightened, attempting reassurance. “It’s probably nothing—just nerves,” he offered weakly, though his own senses sharpened.
He noticed now what Evan had intuitively grasped. It wasn’t just quiet—it was absolute stillness. The grass, trees, flowers: everything had frozen in place.
His hand moved toward her instinctively, then paused in midair. “Probably nothing,” he repeated, softer this time, eyes scanning the edges of the meadow, counting shadows.
Wishing irrationally that Chad were still nearby.
Chad moved easily through the thinning trees, boots crunching over brittle pine needles and patches of stubborn snow. The trail had disappeared long ago—if it had ever been a trail to begin with—but he didn’t mind. Up here, with nothing but sky, stone, and scrub, he felt like he could finally breathe. No coaches barking at him. No professors expecting him to be some slightly dumber version of Rick. No parents waiting quietly for his next wrong word. Just the wind, the rocks, and the open space where expectations couldn’t reach.
He tilted his head back and breathed deeply. The wind at this elevation was thin, edged with the last traces of winter. It slid past his face like a secret too small for words.
He grinned. This was his kind of place.
The slope steepened as he climbed, trees thinning to stubborn clusters. He picked his way carefully over a tumble of basalt boulders, stepping from stone to stone, avoiding the dark pockets where ice still lingered, clinging to the mountain’s shade like a grudge. Above him, Humphreys and Agassiz loomed, high points along the crater’s rim, blanketed in white. Humphreys stood solid and solemn; Agassiz cut upward like a pyramid draped with a white shroud. The sky above them was clear, endless—a perfect day.
He found a perch just below the last line of trees and let his pack drop beside him. The Inner Basin stretched out like an amphitheater beneath him—wide, green, cupped by the silent arms of the Peaks.
After settling onto one of the larger rocks, he pulled out his phone and framed a few shots of the ridgeline—the bright wash of sunlight over the trees, the harsh, beautiful lines of the crater rim. He checked for service. No bars. Figures. The towers were all on the far side.
Still, he stayed a while longer, letting the silence stretch out. Letting it settle inside him as the sunlight seeped into his bones.
Until something shifted.
It wasn’t a sound. It wasn’t a movement. Just… something. A ripple at the edge of his awareness. His skin prickled before his brain caught up. He turned.
And froze.
Down beyond where they’d entered the basin, the air shimmered. Not heat. Not fog. Something else. Like static. Like the world’s signal had glitched.
Beyond it, Sunset Crater flickered. One moment solid, the next winking like faulty TV reception, the mountain itself blurring in and out, wavering.
“That’s not how mountains work,” Chad muttered.
He blinked hard. The effect disappeared. Sunset Crater stood firm and immovable, like it always had.
Chad let out a breath, realizing his hand had tightened painfully around the edges of his phone. Idiot. You should’ve gotten a picture.
But he didn’t lift the phone again—not yet.
Slowly he rose to his feet, scanning the basin, the ridgelines, the sky. The air felt wrong, heavy… like a thunderstorm was waiting to happen.
He looked at his watch. Two more hours before Rick would expect him back. Plenty of time—except something deep inside him said otherwise.
He turned, retrieving his CamelBak, and started picking his way down the rocks. The descent was harder, steeper. He had to watch his footing, forcing himself to slow even as everything inside him screamed to move faster.
“Let them have their moment,” he muttered. “Don’t screw it up.”
But his legs didn’t slow.
When he was almost to the shelter of the trees, something caught his eye—to the east, beyond a shallow rise.
Another shimmer.
But this time it wasn’t a ripple, and it wasn’t fading.
The landscape beyond was… wrong. Too vivid, like looking at something drawn in ink instead of light. Two versions of reality bleeding together, sharp and too vibrant.
His breath caught. I wasn’t imagining it.
As his pulse pounded in his ears, he realized that this time, whatever was happening wasn’t going away.
“What if it’s something dangerous?” he said aloud, and hearing the words made the possibility all too real.
That tore it.
He launched down the last rocks, boots pounding against stone and frozen soil, and leaped recklessly into the trees. Branches clawed at his jacket. The cold wind flattened against his face. He didn’t care.
The picnic. Rick. Evan. He ran faster.
He hurdled over fallen branches. Dodged patches of stubborn ice. The ground cover blurred beneath him. He was running on pure reflex.
He glanced once at his watch. Over an hour had passed since he’d left them, walking at a casual pace. It would take fifteen minutes to get back, maybe ten if he pushed.
“For once,” he muttered between breaths, “just get this right.”
No jokes. No act.
Just run.
The afternoon, already unnervingly still since they had arrived, seemed to seize up around them. Not metaphorically. Not figuratively. Evan blinked, and in the brittle silence that followed, she could hear her own breath—too loud, too uneven. Pressure wrapped around her skin, neither hot nor cold. Just… weight. Like the air itself was thickening, pressing inward, squeezing the breath from her lungs.
Her hand flew instinctively to the pendant at her neck, gripping the twisted gold harder than she meant to. When she forced herself to let go, the shape of it was pressed deep into her palm.
No wind. No birdsong. Just the rising thrum of something she couldn’t name—something that wasn’t sound.
Vertigo hit her hard. She braced one hand against her temple, squeezing her eyes shut for half a heartbeat.
When she opened them again, Rick was staring at her across the blanket—confused.
“I’m sorry,” she said, faster than she meant to. Yet her voice sounded steadier than she felt. “I know this was meant to be special. It is special. But we need to leave. Now.”
Rick’s face fractured, warring emotions flickering across it too quickly to catch. His hand clenched the blanket tightly enough that his knuckles paled. His jaw worked, biting back words. He didn’t move.
Of course he didn’t. He was still trying to fit her fear into a model that made sense. Still trying to solve her panic like it was a math problem. But this wasn’t solvable. It wasn’t rational.
She saw the shift in his gaze. The moment he realized this wasn’t just her being nervous.
But he was still lost.
She reached across the blanket and caught his hand. “Trust me,” she said, willing him to hear everything she couldn’t explain.
It worked. Rick swallowed hard, set his jaw, and began cramming everything back into the pack. Not his usual meticulous movements. He was harried, shaky. Evan stuffed in whatever she could grab, fingers clumsy with adrenaline.
Something crawled across her skin. She batted at it, expecting ants, but there were none. The tingling stayed.
Rick’s voice broke through. “What’s happening? Do you know?”
“No!” she cried. “I just know we don’t have time.”
Images from her dream clawed their way back—earth tearing open, fire bleeding into sky. Her stomach roiled.
As they hurried for the car, she stumbled. Rick’s arm shot out, steadying her.
Almost there.
“What about Chad?” he asked.
Panic spiked, but before she could answer, his brother burst from the tree line, sprinting flat out toward them. Rick saw him too, and they broke into a run.
They all reached the Mazda at nearly the same instant. Chad collapsed against the car, gasping for air, hands braced against his knees. His shirt was soaked with sweat, his face pale.
“Did you—” He choked. “See it too?”
Rick blinked. “See what?” Then he wrinkled his nose. “Do you smell that?”
Evan caught it then—a metallic tang in the air. Ozone. And something worse underneath. “Get in the car!” she barked.
Fingers shaking, she fumbled at the handle. Rick was already in the driver’s seat, the engine rumbling. Chad half-fell into the back.
No one asked about gear. No one cared about doors.
Rick punched the gas, slamming the car into reverse. Chad yelped—his door still half-open—as Rick braked, twisted the wheel, and shot forward.
Evan braced herself against the dash as they careened down the rutted road. Every jolt hammered up her spine. Her stomach lurched with each bounce.
Sweat slicked her palms but not from fear. This wasn’t just wrong—this was alien.
“What happened?” Rick barked over the sound of tires slamming against the dirt.
“What do you mean?” Chad coughed out.
“You said, ‘See it too?’ See what?”
“That!” Chad’s hand shot between the seats, pointing.
Evan’s heart sank.
Ahead, the road stretched—and something shimmered across it.
A wall. A curtain. A… wrongness.
Light writhed where it shouldn’t, like an aurora rising into the air. Reality bent, rippling upward from the ground. The air swam like heat off pavement—but wrong. Not just refracted. Warped.
And behind it, glimpses of… otherness. Fractured images, shapes that flickered too quickly to understand.
Like a slot machine’s tumblers spinning too fast to land.
The closer they got, the harder it became to look. Evan’s head pounded. Her stomach twisted. The familiar logic of the world felt fragile, thin.
Heat slammed into her—not from outside but from within. Crawling under her skin, buzzing along her bones.
Her breath caught.
Every nerve screamed a warning she couldn’t ignore.
“It’s not just a curtain,” she whispered. “It’s a door.”
“Gun it!” Chad shouted.
Rick floored it, and the front of the Mazda punched into the churning light.
Evan’s stomach dropped, hard and sudden—not like falling but like being ripped loose from gravity itself.
The car jerked violently. Metal shrieked. Light swallowed everything.
She tried to scream, but the sound stretched and warped until it wasn’t even her voice anymore, nor even human.
The taste of burnt metal flooded her mouth—sharp, wrong, suffocating.
Then a snap.
Like the world had tried to swallow them and choked.
Everything inverted.
And then—
Nothing.