Chapter 1, Scene 3

Bobby’s room was through a doorway off the kitchen, a converted single-car garage that had later become an office, and now a claustrophobic bedroom that still looked like neither. He descended the two uneven steps from the kitchen and closed the door behind him—relieved to be away from the others. And the stench. At least the smell didn’t permeate the walls. This room smelled of disinfectant, as though the previous occupant had attempted a respectable cleaning before vacating.

There was no longer a garage door; it had been sealed shut. A small window faced into the backyard. The floor was concrete and covered by a large area rug that made the space feel slightly more livable. The ceiling felt too low, with an old acoustic drop ceiling with a metallic grid and square tiles, yellowed with time.

A naked twin bed sat against one wall with an unopened pillow—still in its plastic wrapping—and a package of sheets sitting on top. They were the only things in the house that looked new. An old armoire that could once have been a toolshed stood against the opposite wall. Bobby opened it to find a row of wire hangers and three drawers below. The only other furniture was a basic, unfinished wooden desk and a metal folding chair.

An old washer and dryer sat against the sealed wall. A box of powdered detergent, a bottle of bleach, and a pile of white cleaning towels sat on the floor beside them. Otherwise, the room was empty.

Bobby set his duffel bag and shoebox on the bed and checked the door to the kitchen. There was no lock. He scanned the room for somewhere he might hide his belongings from prying eyes and wandering hands. The central air kicked on, and a panel of the drop ceiling fluttered, revealing space above.

He pulled the metal folding chair toward the middle of the room and stood on top, but his fingers could barely graze the tiles. He climbed down, removed his shoes, and stood on top of the bed instead. From this height, he could comfortably push the tiles aside, and there was enough room to hide the shoebox. He pushed a tile up and to the side, hoisting the shoebox into the gap and balancing it on the metal grid so it wouldn’t sag against the flimsy tiles.

As he slid the tile back into place, his knuckles hit something hard and metallic. He wasn’t tall enough to see, but he felt around in the dusty space until his hand closed around something cold and cylindrical. He got a grip on it and lowered it into the room.

It wasn’t heavy—just a long tube coated in an eternity of dust. Bobby sneezed three times in quick succession, dust erupting in all directions. He set the tube on the concrete floor, trying to keep the grime off the rug. He grabbed a cleaning towel from beside the washer and used it to wipe away most of the dust.

The tube had a screw-top lid like a thermos. It was fixed tightly, but with some pressure he managed to twist it open. He peered inside and saw nothing, but when he reached in, his fingers brushed a rolled piece of paper. He coaxed it out carefully.

It was thick—more like parchment. He unrolled it and spread it across the desk, holding the curled edges down with both hands.

He stared.

It took nearly thirty seconds before he realized he was holding his breath. When the air finally tore back into his lungs, it came in a sharp gasp.

He glanced toward the kitchen door—instinctive, guilty—like he’d stumbled onto something more secret and precious than the contents of his shoebox. His palms were damp. Sweat prickled across his forehead.

This couldn’t possibly be real.

Could it?

But if it were…

It would change everything.