PART I
NEW MOON
1
NEW CITY BOY
NATE (AGE: 15)
Headphones tangled around my neck like a noose, camera case pressed against my knees so hard the corners dug through my jeans. Mom hummed in the front seat about “fresh mountain air” while Dad muttered about losing cell reception for the third time in twenty minutes.
Perfect. Just fucking perfect.
Rain streaked the windows of our ancient sedan, turning Hollow Pines into watercolor smears as we crawled down what passed for a main road. Pine trees pressed against both sides like they were trying to crush us, their branches scratching at the glass with sounds that made my teeth hurt. Not the good kind of hurt—the kind that warned you something was wrong.
“Oh, Nathaniel, look at that!” Mom twisted in her seat, pointing at a crooked sign half-hidden by moss. “Welcome to Hollow Pines, population 2,847. Isn't it charming?”
Charming. Right. Like a cemetery at midnight was charming.
“Sure, Mom.” My voice came out flatter than roadkill, but she was too busy bouncing in her seat to notice. Dad's knuckles hadgone white around the steering wheel, his jaw working like he was chewing glass. He'd wanted to stay in Portland. Had made that abundantly clear during every family meeting about “new opportunities” and “fresh starts.”
Fresh starts. Code for running away from everything that had gone to shit.
Not that I was bitter.
I pressed my forehead against the cold window and framed shots in my mind—mist trailing through the trees like ghost fingers, the way shadows pooled between buildings, how the streetlights flickered on and off like they couldn't decide if they wanted to work. Documentary photography, I told myself. Evidence of this place, even if I ended up hating every second here.
Because if I was going to be miserable, at least I'd have pictures to prove it.
Main Street unfolded ahead of us like someone's idea of small-town perfection. Brick storefronts with hanging flower baskets that dripped steadily in the rain. A café with warm yellow light spilling through steamed windows. An old-fashioned barbershop with a spinning pole. It looked like a movie set, too clean and cute to be real.
But the people weren't acting like extras.
Every single person we passed stopped what they were doing to stare at our car. An old man in a flannel shirt paused mid-stride, coffee cup halfway to his lips. Two women chatting outside what looked like a florist shop fell silent and tracked our progress with their eyes. A teenager on a bike actually turned around to follow us for half a block before peeling off down a side street.
“Fuck,” I muttered. “Are we that obvious?”
“Language, honey.” But Mom's voice had gone tight, and I saw her shoulders hunch forward. She'd noticed too.
“Welcome wagon's probably already organizing,” Dad said, and the bitter edge in his voice made my stomach clench. He'd been against this move from day one, and every mile we'd driven had only made him more resentful. “Small towns love fresh meat.”
“Michael.” Mom's teacher voice, sharp and warning.
“What? Kid should know what he's walking into.”
And there it was. The truth neither of them wanted to say out loud—we weren't just moving to Hollow Pines. We were running to it. Mom's teaching job was the excuse, but the real reason sat heavy in the car with us, thick as the mist outside.
Portland had chewed me up and spit me out. Again.
I'd fucked up at school, fucked up with friends, fucked up so completely that even my guidance counselor had suggested a “change of scenery” might be beneficial. Code for: your kid's a mess and we don't know how to fix him.
Fair enough. I didn't know how to fix me either.
But maybe—maybe here I could figure out how to be someone different. Someone who didn't drift between friend groups like a ghost, who didn't feel like an outsider in his own skin. Someone who belonged somewhere.
Fat chance, but a guy could dream.
We pulled up in front of a two-story house that looked like it had been transplanted from a fairy tale. White picket fence and all. The realtor's car was already in the driveway, and before Dad had even turned off the engine, a woman burst out of the front door, waving and grinning like we were long-lost relatives.
