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“Yes!” the young woman says. “Those bright yellow ones. That’d work.”

The bartender clears his throat. “So, that was on my shopping list. Where it’s been for the last month.” He grimaces. “Business isn’t exactly booming, which means the list never seems to get shorter. Oh! But I do have a crowbar. Maybe you can get that trunk open?”

Henry nods. “I’ll take it.”

“I’ll go with you,” I say.

He glances over, and I know he’s ready to tell me to stay behind, especially since I’m not in peak condition right now, but then he looks over at the others. Considering taking one of them instead? Or considering whether to leave me behind with them? In the end, he only says, “You sure?,” and when I nod, he asks the bartender for the crowbar.

EIGHT

Henry and I head out. The bartender gave us an old umbrella and a tarp we could use as a makeshift raincoat, but by the time we leave, the storm has subsided enough that it’s like when we walked to the bar, with a drizzle so light that we leave the umbrella and tarp behind.

Puddles dot the asphalt and the red moon glows eerily off them. I listen for any sounds of life, but I catch only the steady drip of water somewhere to my left. I pull my hands into my sleeves and hunch against a sudden chill.

“You okay?” Henry asks when we reach the road. Then he gives a low, humorless laugh. “Be more specific, huh? First, how are you feeling?”

“Fine. The painkillers are doing their job. It’s the rest that has me on edge.”

“Yeah. I…” He glances over. “I don’t know what to make of that woman. She matches the description you gave. There’s water under her chair, but she’s dry. The bartender says she’s been there all night. I want an easy answer, and I don’t have one.”

“Supernatural portent of impending doom?”

I expect him to laugh, but he only looks over and says, cautiously, “You believe in that stuff?”

“No. You?”

“Nah. My grandparents raised me with all kinds of tribal lore, but only to understand where I came from. My grandmother used to say that ancient people told stories to get people to listen.”

When I lift a brow, he shrugs one shoulder. “What works better? Telling a kid not to swim in the lake alone? Or telling them a story about their cousin who drowned swimming alone? And if the kid still won’t listen, well, maybe it’s time to talk about the monster that preys on children swimming by themselves.”

“Stories make the lessons stick. As for the woman I saw in the rain, now sitting dry on a barstool? I have no explanation. But I also don’t see a threat so…?” I shrug.

“Yeah, that was my take on it. Unexplained phenomenon.”

“Yep. A tale I’ll probably tell around a campfire someday.”

He smiles over. “I might borrow it. My girls would be amused. Especially Ivy. She’ll probably go on a folklore hunt. You’ll need to give me a contact email so I can send the five-page document she ends up with.”

“I’d actually love that. I might not believe in things like portents, but I love folklore. Gotta say, I’ve never heard of this particular one. It’s like a fetch—which you see in a lot of cultures—but a fetch is just telling you you’re about to die. Which I didn’t.”

“Unless you were supposed to see her right before you had a terrible accident, but the sight of her made you brake and survive.”

When I don’t answer, he frowns. “Ellie?” Before I can react, he says, “Sorry if that joke was in bad taste.”

“Not at all. I need a little levity right now.” I tap my bandaged head. “I feel as if this is making me … Anxious? Nervous? Is that a thing? A side effect?”

“You were in a car accident. Two car accidents, to be precise. You hit the tree and then I hit you. Being anxious and nervous would be a side effect of that, not necessarily the blow to the head. Adrenaline spikes plus realizing how much worse it could have been.”

“I guess so.” I gaze out along the road as we walk, our shoes sloshing through shallow puddles.

“That didn’t seem to answer your question.”

“It’s just … I’m not sure ‘anxious’ and ‘nervous’ are the right words. I’m seeing things.”

At his deepening frown, I hurry on, “Not actually seeing things. No visual hallucinations. Just overreacting, I guess. Things that shouldn’t bother me are freaking me out.” I wave up at the sky, where the patchwork low-hanging clouds remain, red light swirling behind them. “Like that.”

When he only squints up, I say, “Are we seeing the same thing?”