Chapter 2

Mayor Hank wrung his hands. "Someone's got to go! That door won't hold forever!"

Mike, a retired Marine who lived a few houses down, stepped forward. He was a quiet man, but his eyes held a steady strength.

"I'll go, Hank. Me and a couple of the younger lads. We'll take my truck."

He didn't look at me, but I felt his unspoken sympathy.

A few other men volunteered, their faces grim. They grabbed makeshift weapons – a pitchfork, a heavy wrench, a baseball bat.

"Light some torches!" Hank ordered. "Maybe the fire will keep it at bay while they're gone."

As they hurried off towards Mike's truck, the rest of us watched the cougar. It was relentless, throwing its weight against the door, its growls growing louder, more frustrated.

Grandma was inside, alone. I could imagine her terror.

I pressed my forehead against the cool glass of the window, my gaze fixed on that struggling door.

Hours passed. The sun dipped below the treeline, painting the sky in hues of orange and purple. The shadows lengthened, and the cougar became a darker, more menacing shape in the gloom.

The men returned, their shoulders slumped, their faces etched with anger and exhaustion.

Mike's jaw was tight.

"That son of a..." He bit back the curse. "David said we were lying. Said Emily put us up to it."

Another man, young Tom, spat on the ground. "His girl, Jessica, she was there, whining about wanting to stay for the fireworks. Said Emily was just jealous because it's their birthday today and she wasn't getting a party."

My heart clenched.

Jessica and I shared a birthday. A cruel joke of fate.

Every year, Mom and Dad threw a party for Jessica. Cake, presents, all her little friends.

I got nothing. Not even a word.

As I got older, I was the one who had to help bake Jessica's cake, set up her decorations.

The smell of vanilla and sugar always made me feel sick.

From inside the besieged house, through a small, grimy window near the back, I saw a flicker of movement.

It was Grandma Susan.

She was holding something up.

Even in the dim light, I could make out a small, carefully wrapped package of flour and a couple of eggs.

Her voice, thin and trembling, barely reached me.

"Emily... honey... don't you worry. They don't... they don't get you a cake... Grandma will make you one."

Tears welled in my eyes, hot and fast.

All these years, she'd been the only one. The only one who saw me, who loved me.

She must have been saving those meager supplies for weeks, a little at a time, from the scraps Dad allowed her.

The sight of her small, brave gesture, her love reaching out through the fear and the failing light, broke something inside me.

I couldn't just stand here.