The older couple who took Sasha and Nathan in that night lived on the edge of town in a house that always smelled faintly of tea, old books, and rain-damp wood. Brother Morales was stooped with age but still steady in movement. His wife, Elena, spoke softly and acted quickly, the way women do who have learned that calm hospitality can itself become a form of protection.

Nathan was wrapped in a blanket almost before he understood where he was. Sasha sat near the small heater, wet hair clinging at the edges of her face, her eyes fixed on nothing for several long moments.

Elena placed a cup of something warm into her hands. “Drink,” she said gently.

Sasha obeyed automatically.

Outside, the storm continued. Water ran in hard streams off the roof. Branches scratched at the windows like fingernails. Every now and then headlights passed on the distant road and threw ghostly shapes across the curtains.

Nathan finally found his voice.