Margo takes a step back realizing what they’re after now. Her wounds.

“Let me see,” the lady says pulling at the hem of the poncho. Though her stomach clenches, Margo obeys and removes the smelly garment.

Mouth dropping open, the woman studies the rows of cuts that run the length of Margo’s arms. The blood has thickened and scabbed over into jagged marks. She turns her face away, not wanting to see the injuries she sustained without a conscious realization.

“There’s so much,” whispers the lady. “So many…”

Her eyes follow the lines on Margo’s inner arms, truly studying it as if it is some encryption she understands.

“There was a light,” Margo says quietly, unsure of what else to say to answer her earlier question. “It exploded, and I think…it cut me…”

Margo flushes with embarrassment. Why should this woman believe her? Hearing the words spoken aloud shames her. She would label herself as a lunatic had their roles been reversed.

Except, from the knowing look on the woman’s face, she just might believe her story.

“And my neck,” she continues with a little more enthusiasm, lifting her hair to share the other cuts with this stranger.

“More?” the lady asks, though she is already lightly tracing her fingers around the cuts. Thankfully, it doesn’t hurt, like areas are desensitized. “So it is possible.”

Margo is unsure whether she is asking a question or simply stating a fact, so she remains silent.

“You’re going to have to come with me.”

Margo nods. She doesn’t have many options to choose from. Besides, she has never been on her own before, and this lady is the most decent person she’s yet to encounter.

She dons her bag from under her desk and hands Margo back the poncho. “Put this back on, honey.”

Without hesitation, Margo pulls the smelly thing back on and holds her breath again. She understands her reasoning for the cover-up, though; the wounds seem to attract a lot of attention.

They step out onto the small porch of the Welcome Center. Margo attempts to look inconspicuous in the middle of this strange town — Jamyria. The people scurry by on the streets. A variety of emotions pass her ranging from anger to sadness, depending on the person, but Margo notices that nobody looks happy. Except one.

The lady turns to lock up the building, and meets Margo’s gaze with her blazing smile. “I’m Janie Saunders, by the way.”

“Margo Grisby,” she returns, nodding once.

“Margo,” repeats Janie. She holds her hand out toward the street, a cue to start walking. “The town isn’t much to look at, but we’ve done the best we can.”

Margo doesn’t reply, but instead hopes for further explanation which does not come. Janie leads the way around the opposite corner that Margo had been brought in on. This time she isn’t instructed to keep her head down, so she tries to absorb as much of the town as possible. The daunting shadows from the cliffs cause it to feel darker than it is.

The walk is short, only about a block from the corner. Janie stops in front of a building that looks more like a cottage rather than a cabin. Instead of wood, it is made of stone similar to the surrounding wall. ‘The First Mark, Number 1’ reads the signage overhead, the most ornate sign in the village. The letters are painted in gold bordered in winding green ivy, and it’s attached to the house with scrolling tendrils of iron.

Janie walks up to the door with her arm around Margo’s shoulder and knocks. Minutes pass before the shouts start on the other side of the door.

“What do you want? Come to bother me some more? To question an old man?” he shouts. “I’ll blast you all to hell if I have to, I will! Blast you all —”

“Nick, it’s me,” Janie laughs.

The door swings open. A tall, lanky man leans out with his eyes wide and full of excitement behind his dark-rimmed spectacles. He looks in his late fifties with glossy blue eyes and short gray hair sticking out in several directions.