The next morning, their parents went into town to check for updates and pick up a few things. They didn't say when they'd be back.
Peter and Nicki stayed behind at the cabin.
After breakfast—oatmeal and water, nothing fancy—Peter grabbed his basketball and stepped outside. He'd brought it along in the car, stuffed between two duffels, along with a hand pump just in case. He always found space for it.
The cabin's driveway had an old metal hoop posted at the far end. The backboard was slightly bent, and the net hung faded and stiff, but it was up. The rim looked close enough to regulation, and that was good enough for him.
He started with drills—twenty minutes straight.
Left hand. Then right. Then both. Quick footwork. Low stance. Sharp snaps of the wrist as he changed direction and pace. His breathing settled into rhythm. This was his reset.
Then he reached into his pocket and pulled out a folded bandana.
He tied it over his eyes, tight enough to stay in place. Stilled himself. Then started again—stationary dribbling, blindfolded. Tight control. Crippling crossovers, fast changes in direction. All feel, no sight. He needed to know the ball better than he knew the court. If you had to look down, you weren't ready.
The rhythm clicked.
Then he heard the cabin door creak open.
Gravel shifted under footsteps.
Peter pulled the bandana off as Nicki walked across the driveway toward him, hoodie sleeves pushed up, athletic shorts catching the morning breeze.
She didn't stop walking.
"Let's play," she said, reaching out and catching the ball on a bounce. "Game to eleven. Ones and twos. Win by two. Call your own fouls?"
Peter was just average height for thirteen, still growing into his frame, but his movements were sharp and deliberate. Nicki, sixteen going on seventeen, had the length and stride of a natural athlete. Volleyball was her sport, and it showed in her posture—upright, balanced, powerful in her hips and shoulders. She lifted as part of her training and had the strength to match. For a female athlete, she was undeniably strong.
The game had started steady. Peter hit the first two shots—a clean midrange jumper off the backboard, then a quick crossover into a left-hand layup before Nicki fully warmed up.
She smirked after that one. "Alright."
Peter knew that tone. That was her you're not getting away with that again voice.
The game stretched out over the next twenty minutes. They were calling their own fouls, playing ones and twos to eleven, win by two. Peter was hitting shots—his rhythm solid, his handle giving him space—but Nicki was locked in now. She tracked his footwork, read his fakes, and used her stride to close ground faster than most defenders he was used to.
He could feel her strength when they bumped shoulders. She didn't play dirty, but she played physical—like someone who lifted weights for reps, who knew how to plant her feet and wall off space.
Still, Peter kept it close.
A year ago, she would've kicked his butt. Easily. He hadn't been able to get around her, couldn't land clean shots, and she'd towered over him in the post. But this time? This time he was matching her. Shot for shot, move for move. He could see it in her expression—Nicki was actually trying.
His jumper was working. That smooth high release. He found spots just outside her reach and kept hitting the glass. He worked the angles, used his footwork, stayed just out of her hands.
But then Nicki started to press.
She adjusted her stance. Played tighter. Started using her frame to body him off the ball, absorbing contact and pushing back with confidence. She wasn't just defending—she was controlling space. When she backed him down, he could feel the difference. Her strength was real.
She hit a turnaround jumper off a post-up, her elbow brushing his chin as she rose. Then stole a lazy dribble near half-court and powered through to the rim.
And now she was pulling ahead.
But not like before.
Not easily. Not without effort.
Peter wiped sweat from his face and reset. He was still in it. Still focused. The score was close—tied more than once. He wasn't backing off, and neither was she.
Each shot mattered now. Each move had weight.
What had started as a sibling game had turned into something else—competitive, strategic, personal.
And neither of them wanted to lose.
Peter struggled to hold his ground on defense. Nicki was using her height and reach to full effect, planting deep with her legs, then pressing forward—shoulder down, hip angled—driving him back step by step. She was measured, not wild. She moved with purpose. When she had the angle, she'd force him off balance, then finish clean with a layup.
He had to play aggressive. Anything else meant giving up points.
And sometimes that meant fouling her. Not on purpose—just because he didn't have many options. One out of every three drives, he reached in late, bumped her hip, or clipped her arm trying to contest. She called it with a simple nod and stepped back.
Then she'd knock down the free throws with practiced form. Smooth, high arc, no wasted motion. Every single one felt automatic.
It annoyed him, but he didn't show it.
He kept moving. Kept working. Kept playing.
Because she wasn't running away with it.
Twenty minutes in, the score was 15 to 16.
Game to 11, win by two—and Peter had been holding the line, refusing to let Nicki pull ahead for the win. A couple of clutch twos had kept him in it, barely.
He caught the ball at the top and went into his rhythm—crossover left, sharp and low. Nicki reached for the steal, her momentum shifting forward. She missed.
Peter drove hard.
She recovered quick, cutting him off again near the wing. He hesitated, then juked the other direction, and she stepped with him. He felt the opening. He'd sold it.
He stepped back to the left corner—his favorite midrange spot—and rose into his jumper.
It felt perfect. The ball left his hands clean, rotation just right, lift balanced.
He was certain. One hundred percent.
The second it left his fingertips, he knew it was going in.
But Nicki had only feinted being beaten.
She hadn't fully committed to the fake. She'd read his rhythm, guessed his plan, and set the trap. As soon as he lifted, she planted, pivoted, and jumped.
And Nicki had hops.
As a star volleyball player, she knew how to time a jump—how to spike a ball mid-air, how to track an arc and rise with purpose. Her vertical was no joke, and her instincts were even better.
It felt like slow motion.
Peter saw her rise, saw her hand come out wide—and then crack, the sound of her palm swatting the ball out of the air. A clean block. All timing. All setup.
The ball hit the gravel with a skidding bounce.
It was a poster-worthy block.
She landed with a grin and started bouncing on her toes. "What's that you always say when you're playing your game?" she called out, laughing.
Then with a full smile: "Get that shit outta here."
Peter dropped his hands to his hips and laughed with her, sweat dripping from his forehead.
Then he looked up and gave her the stare—that sharp, no-joke, tiger-eyed look that meant he wasn't done.
"Your ball," he said. "Let's see if you finish as good as you talk smack."
Then, out of nowhere, Peter heard a car tearing up the gravel road.
The sound hit sharp—an engine pushed too hard, tires clawing through loose stone, the kind of high-rev scream that didn't belong this deep in the woods. Gravel pinged off trees in short bursts, followed by the steady growl of acceleration that didn't let up.
Fast. Too fast. Tires spinning, gravel scattering in bursts across the trees.
He and Nicki stopped mid-play, both frozen mid-breath, and turned toward the sound. The ball bounced once, then rolled into the grass, forgotten. Through the trees, the black Hyundai Palisade came barreling into view—its headlights bouncing as the suspension fought the uneven ground. The engine whined under pressure, wheels kicking out sheets of dirt behind them. It skidded into the clearing, fishtailed once, then snapped back under control before jerking to a hard stop just short of the porch.
The front doors flung open with twin cracks of metal and plastic hinges pushed to their limit.
Gerald came out first. His movements were sharp, efficient—no wasted steps, but none of it casual. One hand gripped the top of the door frame so hard the skin across his knuckles looked bone-white. The other twitched slightly at his side, fingers opening and curling again like he was holding back an impulse to reach, to act. His chest rose once, deep and measured, as if to force calm into his body. His eyes swept the clearing in quick, deliberate arcs—cabin, woods, treeline, sky—searching without pause.
He looked like he was trying to find something that hadn't happened yet—but could, at any moment.
Annie followed fast behind. She swung the door wide and stepped out quickly, but her right foot caught on the edge of the frame—just for a second—and she caught herself with a quick shift of her weight. Her balance never broke, but her hands came up midair, hovering, palms slightly turned outward. Caught between shielding and grasping. Her gaze snapped from Peter to the trees, then upward—sharp, flicking motions, like her thoughts were two steps ahead of what her eyes could confirm.
Her jaw was tight, lips pressed together. A faint tremble touched her chin before she locked it down, and a single crease cut deep between her brows. Her posture was forward, ready to move—but she didn't.
Peter had never seen either of them move like that.
"We need to—" Gerald started.
The ground moved.
A shove—firm and sudden, as if something beneath the earth had pushed back.
Peter's feet slid across the gravel. A soft breath of dust rose in a slow pulse. Hairline cracks began to spread near the tires, sharp and precise. From below, a dim white glow surfaced—steady and rhythmic, like warmth building under pressure.
The trees gave a deep groan, wood shifting with the tension in the soil.
Peter's eyes locked on his mother.
Annie lowered her stance. Knees bent, body angled, one arm raised slightly in front of her, ready to shield. Her lips moved in quiet rhythm, and her gaze moved between the ground and sky, tracking changes with exact focus. Breath passed quickly through her nose, controlled and sharp.
Gerald shifted his weight wider, grounding himself. His chest lifted. His eyes held steady above the treetops, fixed on a single point overhead. His jaw set, and his hand rose slightly behind Annie, prepared to guide her with a firm press if needed.
Nicki stood to Peter's left. Her body leaned forward, her hands loose at her sides, knuckles faintly tense. Her gaze followed the white light inside the cracks. Shoulders steady, posture sharp. The glow reflected along her arms.
Above, the sky filled with light.
A pale, rising shimmer pressed through the clouds—smooth and even, with cool intensity. It gathered at the edges of the treetops and rolled inward in broad, clean waves. The light passed across the clearing like glass sliding over water, and the air brightened without warmth.
Peter stepped forward.
The ground moved again, deeper and longer. The cracks widened in uneven patterns. The driveway shifted underfoot, lines splitting wider as more light pushed up through the dirt. Dust swirled into the air, thick enough to mark the edges of every breath.
He turned to his family.
Annie held one hand to the side of the SUV, knees braced. Her hair brushed against her cheeks with the vibration. Gerald reached for her with both hands, guiding her upright, his arms steady and locked around her side. His mouth moved in fast, clipped phrases, his eyes set on hers.
"Run!"
The word rang out—clear, urgent, direct.
Then the light made contact.
At first, it was a cool feeling.
It spread from the center of his chest, slow and steady, curling through his ribs, up his neck, and down his arms. His breath hitched. Muscles tensed. The cold settled deep, wrapping around his spine, folding into the spaces between his bones.
Then the heat followed.
It surged outward—fast and dry—rushing over his skin, moving straight through muscle and nerve. The cold didn't leave. It stayed, while the heat climbed on top of it, and the pressure inside him rose.
Then came the current.
It didn't stop at his skin. It punched through him, clean and bright. His arms snapped tight. Fingers curled until they ached. His legs locked straight. His chest pushed forward, his back strained. His jaw clamped down so hard it felt like his teeth might crack.
Pain followed in full.
It took over everything. It moved through his bones, pressed into his head, filled his chest until there was no room left. Every part of him felt full—too full—but still the force kept coming, pushing into the corners of his body like it meant to stay.
His muscles burned. His eyes throbbed. His breath stayed caught halfway out, and his lungs never finished the motion.
His body strained under it—every tendon pulled tight, every joint braced, holding together only because it hadn't yet broken.