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had begun construction on a cell phone tower. Or something. He didn’t know
why
a giant circular hole might have opened up out of nowhere, but Max was sure there was a reasonable, corporate, environmentally unfriendly explanation for all of this.
    As an afterthought, he grabbed a nearby rock and tossed it into the hole, waiting for a thump to signify that it had hit the bottom.
    A minute later he was still waiting.
    But he was cold now, exhausted, and a sudden fear rose in his chest—what if his mother needed him? What if she was having an episode right now and was desperately calling out his name, dialing the number of a cell phone that he hadn’t remembered to bring with him?
    He sprinted home.
    Only when he opened her door with fumbling hands and saw her lying there, safe and alive, did the panic stop ringing in his ears.
    â€œYou okay, Max?” she said blearily, through squinted eyes. “What’s wrong?”
    â€œNothing,” he said, his voice cracking. He cleared his throat. “Nothing. Thirsty. Just getting some water.”
    â€œYou look sweaty, hon. Did you have a nightmare?”
    He didn’t know what to say to that.
    Maybe?

Malevolence
    THE NEXT MORNING, MAX SLEPT IN. Only by five minutes, but those five minutes translated into five minutes late showering, five minutes late getting dressed, and, ultimately, five minutes late for the verbal beatdown Stavroula was all too willing to deliver.
    â€œWe open five minutes ago,” she scolded as he rushed in.
    â€œI know, I know.” He pulled his blue vest out from under the counter and put it on, praying that she wouldn’t notice the glitter shower that ensued. “I’m sorry.”
    â€œ
Five minutes ago.
And where is my cashier? Watching goats mate on the computer?”
    â€œI—no! Why would you think that?”
    â€œI don’t know what you kids do on that box!” she said, throwing up her arms. “All I know is that you are late. Tell me why.”
    Max’s mouth was devoid of saliva. Even if it wasn’t for the cat, he still hated being in trouble. And truth be told, he was still a bit shaken by what he’d seen up on Ugly Hill. If not for the dirt caked on his shoes, he might have thought he dreamed it.
    â€œLast night, I—um, couldn’t sleep, and—”
    â€œAnd, and? I no sleep in six years since my husband die, bless his soul.”
    Max joined her in making the sign of the cross. “It’s just—I—”
    He didn’t want to do it. He hated trotting out this excuse, this despicable, manipulative excuse, but she was staring at him so hard he was willing to do anything to make her stop.
    â€œIt was my mom,” he said in a low voice, taking care to inject double doses of Sorrowful Despair and Soldiering On in the Face of Adversity.
    Stavroula’s scowl diminished, replaced by a look of sympathy, or perhaps disappointment at not being able to keep yelling at him. “Ah. Yes. Is she all right?”
    He nodded and spoke in clipped words. “Yeah. Fine.”
    â€œGood.” She waggled her finger at him as she walked back toward her office, but any anger was long gone. “Just don’t let it happen again.”
    The door slammed.
    Max exhaled. After making sure that his resting heart rate had been restored, he reached for his book of crossword puzzles. Over the entirety of last Saturday’s double shift, he’d solved twenty-one in fourteen hours, resulting in a rate of only 1.5 puzzles per hour, which simply would not do. Fatigue had set in. Fatigue was the enemy.
    Determined to do better this time, and even more determined to put the Ugly Hill incident out of his mind, he set his watch for fourteen hours—his shift lasted fifteen, but he had to allow a spare one for lunch, dinner, and those pesky interrupting customers. He uncapped his pen, got to work, and didn’t stop until halfway through puzzle number