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would her car start? She knew as much about cars as she did Chinese—like, nothing —but most cars had complex electronics, and a computer chip or two. So maybe not.
    She buckled her lumbar pack around her waist. The pack was heavier than usual because, along with her emergency survival gear, she’d also wedged a black, soft-sided case she hadn’t unzipped for nearly three years, since the week after her parents died. The case was weighty, almost twelve pounds, and was sort of hers and sort of not. Aunt Hannah had never made the contents a secret; had told Alex she should feel free to look inside any time she wanted. It might do you some good was how her aunt put it, though she never explained what that good might be and Alex sure didn’t know.
    There were memories in this case. At first, they’d been memories too painful to want to think about, much less remember. For the first year, she’d had no control over those memories at all. The triggers could be almost anything: a snatch of song, the sudden warble of a police cruiser, a stranger with hair so exactly like her mother’s that the sight stole her breath. Every memory brought pain that was sharp and sudden and so fierce it was like someone had slipped a knife between her ribs and given a good twist. Then, as the monster grew and her sense of smell died, the triggers seemed fewer and her memories harder to get at, as if she were trying to recover files from a corrupted hard drive. In a way, she’d been okay with that. What she never told Aunt Hannah was that, sometimes, having a monster squatting in her brain—eating away at her memories, crunching them to dust—had been, almost, a relief. Her brain wasn’t exactly hers anymore, but at least her thoughts weren’t out of control.
    It also occurred to her now that she’d stolen the case from her aunt for nothing. No way she’d reach Mirror Point now. Her reasons for coming to the Waucamaw to begin with had just gone up in those proverbial flames.
    Which was pretty ironic, considering what was in the case.

    â€œI’m leaving now,” Alex said. “I think you better come with me.”
    â€œNo. I hate you.”
    Yeah, yeah. “Okay, listen: I’m taking the shorter trail, the one I showed you on the map that goes straight down into the valley. When you decide to come—”
    â€œI’m never coming.”
    â€œDon’t forget your pack, and don’t forget to strap on Mina’s pack …”
    Ellie stoppered her ears. “I’m not listening to you.”
    â€œâ€¦ because I don’t have dog food. If you could go through your grandpa’s pack and bring along some—”
    â€œLa-la-la-la,” Ellie sang. “La-la-la-la.”
    â€œâ€”some more food and water for us, that would be good, too.” Honestly, she didn’t want the kid or her dog to come along, but Ellie was only eight. Alex didn’t even remember what it was like to be that young.
    Slipping her father’s Glock from her pack, she slotted in a full magazine, pulled back on the slide, and jacked a round into the chamber. A standard Glock didn’t have an external safety. It was one of the reasons her cop dad had liked the weapon. Just point and shoot. When she’d inherited the gun, though, she’d installed a cross-trigger safety. No really good reason—this was well before the monster sent up smoke signals—but maybe her subconscious was on the ball even then. Considering how often she and the Glock had gotten cozy in her aunt’s basement, the time it took to jab that little button and release the keeper bar probably accounted for why she was still ticking. A millisecond was just long enough for a person to change her mind.
    Now, after double-checking the safety, she reseated the gun, then clipped the paddle holster to her right hip.
    Ellie had stopped singing. “Why are you wearing