Chapter 9
Mark and Rebecca stand somberly over the rectangular prism.
Aside from a ceramic moon night-light, the glow of the touch screen, and the green sensor dot, the nursery is dark.
Next door Jackson is having a party, his stereo blaring so loud they had to turn up the volume on Maddy’s sound soother.
Evidently for Jackson, noise pollution isn’t nearly as intrusive as having pine needles blown onto his property.
Everything feels scary—the coffin-like prism, the Gothic lighting, the thunder rumble of bass from next door.
They observe silently, but there is no thunder from the heavens, no shifting of tectonic plates.
Rebecca blows out a breath she didn’t know she was holding, and Mark follows suit. They laugh a little at themselves.
She is tempted to lift the prism’s lid, but there is no handle, no latch, the seam so tight that not even fingernails can slip in to pry it up.
It only opens from the inside.
“What do we do?” Mark asks.
“I guess wait,” Rebecca says.
Her answer hangs heavily in the air between them. Mark doesn’t seem to like it any more than she does.