Genesis. Volume 1.

August 17, 1985. Saturday. 10:00 a.m. The Walker house. Arthur sat in the kitchen, sipping cold coffee and staring out the window. Gray, muggy—rain had been threatening since yesterday but still hadn't fallen. Lisa had gone to the post office an hour ago—said she'd check their general delivery box. She came back with an enormous bag. She set it on the floor, grabbed it with both hands—her shoulder had been pulled. "Help. It's heavy." Arthur looked inside. Envelopes—crumpled, worn, with stamps and without. Some torn open, some taped crosswise, others tied with twine. "All this for us?" "Just the general delivery stuff," Lisa exhaled and leaned against the doorframe. "I was at the post office yesterday. And the day before. And Wednesday." "How many?" "Twenty-seven. Over three weeks." Arthur silently picked up the bag and carried it toward the door. "Meet at the garage at eleven. I'll call the others." August 17, 1985. Saturday. 11:00 a.m. Abandoned garage on Third Street. Lisa dumped the envelopes onto the crate. They scattered across the table like autumn leaves—yellow, brown, gray, with postmarks from all over the country. The air smelled of paper, ink, and something else foreign—other people's rooms, other people's fears. "You brought all this?" Max shook his head when they gathered. "Just the general delivery stuff. I was at the post office yesterday. And the day before. And Wednesday." "And how many?" Emma leaned forward. "Twenty-seven in three weeks." Arthur took the first envelope—worn, with stains. He tore it open. Inside was a scrap of paper torn from a notebook, with a single sentence: "I saw it. Call. 312-555..." Followed by a number. "Chicago." He glanced at the postmark. "Chicago area code," Lisa confirmed. Max tore open another envelope, shook out the contents. An old circus ticket—yellow, decayed, exactly like the ones Crowley left. On the back, in pencil: "Detroit. 7." "They got our signal." "Or one of them did." Emma took the ticket, turned it over in her fingers, brought it to her nose. "Same smell." They sorted through all the letters. Forty minutes of opening, reading, setting aside into piles. Most were short: "I know," "I saw," "help," "a child disappeared here." Some were long, with stories about brothers, sisters, friends. One was written in blood—the letters had faded to brown but were still legible: "He killed my sister. I know where he lives. Help." Jenny picked up that letter, held it to the light. The paper was thin, almost transparent. She put it back. "This isn't a joke." "We never thought it was," Arthur replied. They selected three—the most important. The first from Chicago, from a girl whose brother had disappeared a year ago. The second from Detroit, from a guy who'd seen a clown in a park and found a ticket. The third from Seattle, from a woman who found a ticket under her door after her daughter stopped speaking. "Three different cities, three different people," Lisa counted them like ammunition. "And all of them saw something." "Or think they saw something," Max muttered. "What difference does it make?" Emma stubbed out an invisible cigarette on the crate. "If they believe, they can help." "Or they can hurt us. We don't know who they are." "That's why we meet in a public place. Not alone." "Chicago," Arthur decided. "Closest." "What about Detroit and Seattle?" "Later. Chicago first." He took the letter from Chicago, reread it. The girl's name was Claire. Sixteen years old. Her brother had disappeared last September; all they found were his sneakers and an old circus ticket. Claire didn't trust the police, searched on her own, and came across their ad in the newspaper. "She writes that she'll come anywhere." "No," Emma cut in. "We'll go to her." "On what?" "By bus. I have money—I've been saving," Lisa slapped her pocket. "Me too," Jenny added. "Me too," Emma nodded. Max looked at Arthur. "Same here," Arthur said. "Enough for tickets." "What about our parents?" "We'll say it's a class trip. I'll think of something." "You always do." "Someone has to." Arthur took a blank sheet and wrote a reply. Short, without extra words: "Meet in Chicago, the library on Michigan Avenue. First Sunday in September. 12:00. We'll be holding a red circus ticket." "Red?" Emma raised an eyebrow. "Ours are yellow." "Exactly. Ours. She'll understand." He sealed the envelope, addressed it. "Who's going to the post office?" "I will," Max took the letter, shoved it in his pocket. "I'm heading that way anyway." "And the others? Detroit and Seattle?" "We'll write them later. First we meet this one. Find out what she knows. Then decide." "What if she doesn't show?" "We lose a day and some money. No big deal." "What if it's not her who shows?" "Then we leave. All together. And we don't look back." Arthur gathered the remaining letters—twenty-four, the ones they hadn't selected—and tied them with twine. "We'll sort these later. For now—Chicago." "When are we leaving?" "Friday evening. By bus. Back on Sunday." "And school?" Jenny shrugged. "We'll skip. First time this year." "Not the first," Max corrected. "But the last. I promise." They split up. Outside it was muggy, smelled of rain—the same rain that still wouldn't fall. Arthur walked home thinking about the girl from Chicago, about her brother, about the ticket she'd found. About how they weren't alone anymore. About how this was only the beginning. Somewhere in another city, in another mansion, someone was waiting. Like Jack. Like Crowley once had. "We're coming," Arthur whispered. "Hold on." He didn't know who he was saying it to. Jack? Himself? Or the girl he'd never met? But it didn't matter. What mattered was that they were moving. Not sitting still. Not waiting. For the first time in a long while, Arthur felt not fear, but something else. Hope. August 17, 1985. Saturday. 8:00 p.m. The Walker house. That evening Arthur sat in the kitchen, sorting through the remaining letters. Lisa was drawing at the table—sketches for a new notice they planned to send to the next cities. Max had called, said he'd mailed the letter to Chicago, that everything was fine. His mother clattered pots at the stove, his father read the newspaper in the living room. The house smelled of fried potatoes—the very smell Arthur was afraid of forgetting. "You seem calm today," Lisa observed without looking up. "Tired." "No." She put down her pencil. "You're calm. Not angry, not scared. Just calm." Arthur shrugged. "Maybe I'm used to it." "You can't get used to something like that." "You said yourself you can." Lisa gave him a long look, then nodded, picked up her pencil, and went back to drawing. Arthur stared out the window. Beyond the glass, darkness was falling. Somewhere on the hill, in the old mansion, a gray light glowed—or maybe he only imagined it. He pulled the red thread from his pocket. It was warm—like a stranger's palm. "We're coming, Jack. Soon." Outside the window, the wind rustled. Somewhere in the distance, the rain finally began to fall—the first in a long while.