At the end of Oak Leaf Lane, dawn arrived fifteen minutes early. Most folks didn’t notice, as they rarely did about such things, but eagerness circled the air like a hungry buzzard, watching and waiting. Wild grass shivered; droplets of dew danced to the ground. The earth trembled as low whispers tumbled over hummocks, making geese startle into the sky. Something was about to happen.

But Bristol Keats slept soundly, oblivious to the long-fingered light prying its way through her drapes at such an early hour. Nothing could wrestle her from her bed but a good night’s rest. Drool dampened her pillow, and her arm hung limply over the side of the bed. She had worked late. Her tips lay in a satisfied heap on her nightstand, a ruffled monument to her determination.

Finally, midmorning, she stirred, groaning, then rose from her rumpled bed and shook herself into her jeans. As busy as Friday nights were, festival days were busier, which was a good thing for Bristol. The late notices were stacking up. At the top of the pile lay the electric bill—forty days past due, and shutoff was imminent. Bristol’s tips that day, combined with those from the past week, would take care of that one and leave a little extra for groceries.

With sleep still in her eyes, she sniffed her hair for the oily scent of the parlor, then swiped it into a quick messy ponytail, unaware that the day would be anything but ordinary. It wasn’t something you could see, but as she splashed her face with water, then brushed her teeth, her head turned slightly to the side, a strange velvety warmth filling the air, though it was only a vague sense that she couldn’t name. She didn’t even realize she leaned into it, like a cat arching its back against a doorway.

A doorway. Yes. That is what she leaned into.

But she didn’t know it yet.