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There are cages over the graves.

The gate swings open with a screech, and the woodpecker matches it, his agitation escalating. There are dozens of stones, some of them still neatly etched, others faded to a whispered echo. The newest are easy to read, the cages rusted but only slightly, flakes falling away under my hand as I peer closer.

Zoster Zedeker 1922–1987

Laura Zedeker 1930–1990

Widow’s parents, gone three years apart. I back away, realizing that the empty spots next to Zoster’s and Laura’s stones are meant for Typhus and Widow, one vanished, the other dutifully clearing the weeds from her own grave. The next pair of Zedekers I assume are Zoster’s parents.

Globus Zedeker 1900–1956

Margaret Zedeker 1897–1922

Next to them are twin daughters, Varicella and Rickettsia, dying two days after they were born in 1920, their cages no bigger than the live trap I’d left behind me on the path. I move again, the woodpecker hopping from stone to stone in my wake, still screaming.

Typhus Zedeker 1875–1918

Martha Zedeker 1876–1914

Typhus’s stone bears the beginning of an inscription in German—Aus dem Nichts—the rest fades into obscurity. Next to Martha are a daughter, Rota, and a son, Vibrio, both passing away in 1918, along with their father. I follow the stones, working my way to the back, where they become harder to read.

Lister Zedeker 1845–1876

Mary Zedeker 1845–1882

Another daughter, Dystonia, dead in her twenties, lies beside them. There’s another Typhus, born in 1830, his wife’s name lost to the elements, the scattered smaller stones of their children listing to the side, identities erased. The last grave is at the very back, the stone so worn that all I can make out is T but no dates. It’s heavily shaded, the low-hanging branch of a maple covering most of the cage. I push it aside, and stumble, going down hard.

The cage has a gate cut into the top—and it’s open.

My heart launches into a panicked beat as I crawl backward, stopped hard when I come up against Dystonia’s cage, rusted metal biting into my back.

“What the fuck? What the fuck? What the fuck?”

It’s all I can say, the panicked chattering of the woodpecker matching me beat for beat. He hops to the grave of another Typhus, and I see that it also has a gate, this one secured with an old padlock, the keyhole filled with dirt. The third Typhus’s grave has a gate built into the top, padlock hanging open and unsecured.

Underneath me, the ground groans.

I’m up and running, startling the woodpecker that erupts into panicked flight, then dives at my face. I swat at it and make contact, feathers falling around my feet as I bolt out of the graveyard and onto the path, leaving the live trap behind as I run, rain slashing my face.

Restoration Acres is the only place I want to be—and it doesn’t feel safe anymore.

Twenty-Six

Micah

Having your balls squeezed is only good when it’s a girl doing it. Ethan’s got mine in a vise, and it’s pinching, bad, right along with my conscience. It’s my job to take care of Nickel and Dime—but not too much care. When I bought antiseptic and bandages, Ethan had warned me that healing takes time, and they don’t have that. After the second time I fed them, Dime had flopped across my lap, exhausted, breathing heavily and taking in my warmth, each of his ribs visible.

I crack my head against the brick wall behind me, cursing myself for being an idiot, an asshole, and a piece of shit all at the same time. Because there’s a possibility that if I wasn’t just one of those things, I might not have been roped into the other two. I’m sitting on the floor outside the tech office, staring at the display case of student art projects. Mr. Bartlett had asked me to bring his laptop down to the tech guy, who banished me to the hallway to wait when he caught me looking at the feed from the security cameras. Down the hall, Hailey slips out of the girls’ bathroom, wiping her mouth and changing direction when she spots me.

Seeing Hailey has always caused a cascade of feelings, some of them contradictory. A rush of affection tinged with guilt; lust mixed with self-disgust. But I’ve always liked Hailey. If there’s an angle, she’ll find it, and if there’s a dick joke, she already knows the punch line. She’s one of the guys yet makes sure we’re all very aware that she’s a girl. Hailey is easy to be around, even when things are hard. Which is why my gut turns over when I see her now.

“Had to manage some lady business,” she says, flopping down next to me on the floor.

“Seriously, Hailey, I don’t need to—”

“That and I had to take a shit,” she adds. “I mean, really, buddy, you don’t wanna go in there.”

“You’re such a dude,” I tell her, fighting a smile.