Biggie's was the bar of choice for residents all year except for the summer, when resorters made it their bar of choice to catch "local flavor." It wasn't unheard of for townies to hang out at Biggie's come June or July; they were just as eager to gawk at the resorters as the resorters were to gawk at them. The only difference was that the one gawked to meet their perceived expectations of rural eccentricity while the other merely wished to gawk. But no one from Port Killdeer seriously frequented Biggie's between May and September. The usual regulars found other haunts, went to the rougher biker bar at the edge of town or drank outdoors in their backyards or on their porches. Some even drove half an hour inland to Red Axe, which probably had something to do with the increased drunk driving accidents on the two-lane road that connected the towns.

Come summer, Cris wouldn't be caught dead at Biggie's, but it was early spring (which meant it was pretty much still winter), and she'd begun spending at least four or five weeknights there since she'd received that card in the mail. Drinking alone at her house felt increasingly unnerving, and even though she didn't particularly like people, she'd begun to feel saner in the presence of others.

Waiting for Kevin and Heather and Jeremiah was like waiting for a sentence to be delivered. Cris couldn't help but feel as if she were on trial for something, as if somewhere, some shrouded jury discussed her impending doom, and she had absolutely no say in the matter. The arrival of the others would mean an end to the deliberation, so it seemed, and whatever verdict had been reached would be revealed. At that point, execution would probably seem preferable to the life imprisonment she'd already been sentenced to.

Over the fifteen years since that summer, Cris had never once wanted to return to the resort. What they'd seen--what they knew was there--she'd not wanted anything else to do with it, and yet it clearly had much more to do with her. It'd kept Cris in Port Killdeer, for one thing. No matter how many times she'd thought of leaving or actually tried to leave, something went wrong. Something changed her plans. Cars broke down, or flights were canceled, or storms blew in. There'd been one time when, in her early twenties and at her wits' end, she'd left on foot, just started running down the road; she'd made it several miles before her sister had found her, tired and crying, and brought her home. The weird thing about it all was that Cris could go some places. She could drive into Red Axe, or she could drive up and down the coast a bit; these things were permissible if she had every intention of returning to Port Killdeer. And that was the freakiest thing about it--whatever was keeping her there knew her mind, knew if she meant to stay or go, and kept her back if it sensed she was trying to get away.

Well, years of fruitless attempts at escape had resigned her to her position. She was the gatekeeper. They'd made her the one to stay and watch, to wait until the time had come, and after her mother had died several years back, she'd started her healing business, figuring if the powers that be wouldn't let her escape that darkness in the earth that kept calling her back, she'd make the earth do a little work for her. And so far, so good. Her humble business kept her occupied and gave her a steady enough income. People liked sparkling pretty rocks, saw something different in them than Cris did, and she'd done a pretty decent job capitalizing on whatever it was they thought they saw.

"Usual?" croaked the woman behind the bar.

Cris gave a curt nod. She'd never realized how nice it was to walk into a place as a regular; she didn't even have to converse with anyone in order to get what she wanted. They knew she always drank the same two pints of the same draft beer, that she never wanted to talk but preferred to be alone, and that she'd pay cash and leave a decent tip. Nobody bothered her, and that's how she liked it.

There were others like her, other regulars, some of whom expected similar silent treatment and others who wanted a lengthy conversation with the bartender. Cris recognized most of them. She wouldn't have considered any of them friends--hardly acquaintances--and she tried to avoid eye contact for fear of misrepresenting herself as an interested party. Sometimes she saw people she'd known back in high school or people well-known in town for various reasons: their lechery, their relatives' crimes, their litigious nature, their pretentious know-how, their kids' by-blows, their back-in-the-day chicanery . . . all manner of small-town notoriety. Cris herself had something of a persona, she knew, linked to her erratic behavior during her early-to-mid twenties, back when she'd been hell-bent on testing the confines of her prison, but what people whispered about her these days--if they whispered about her at all--had probably been dulled by the quiet life she'd led for the past several years. What a pity she didn't turn out like her sister--just needs a man, that one; a good man to set her straight--into that new age witchery stuff, ain't she? That sort of thing. Nothing very exciting.

Cris mildly wondered what the talk would be once the others came back. Usually, when people left Port Killdeer, they were gone for good, maybe visited parents for holidays but otherwise stayed away. The irony of many such small towns was that for outsiders, they were charming reminders of a simpler, picturesque kind of life, where nature remained a beautiful backdrop and to which one could escape for respite from a busier, uglier existence, but to insiders--particularly to the young--small towns were stifling, were insular . . . a place to escape from. So the inexplicable return of three escapees would bring some talk.

Heather had excuse to visit, perhaps--her parents and brother were still in town. Cris saw them from time to time but had never been close enough to talk to any of them. Jeremiah could arguably be visiting his father and mother, though for as reclusive as they were, no one would ever know it. Jeremiah's two living sisters were off somewhere in the world; last Cris had heard, they'd made families for themselves, one had a spouse in the military and moved a lot, and the other was somewhere down south. It was sad that they didn't seem to visit their parents more often. And then Kevin--? His only remaining family in Port Killdeer was an older brother, and Cris didn't think they'd ever gotten along. Mike O'Connor ran a car shop on the outskirts of town and was rumored to be something of a brute, though Cris had seldom seen him.

In any case, news traveled fast in Port Killdeer, and surely there'd be talk about why they'd come back. There'd be even more talk when the four of them got together to discuss whatever it was that needed discussing. The reality was that Cris had no idea what was supposed to happen once the others returned. She'd been instructed only to tell them to come home; she hoped they weren't expecting her to know what to do once they got there.

Lost in her ruminations, Cris hardly noticed when someone slipped onto the barstool next to her, and yet when he spoke in a low, calm voice, she wasn't startled. "I've been watching you for the past few weeks. You're always alone."

Turning slowly, unphased by his presence, Cris eyed the stranger. He was young--couldn't be much past the legal age to be drinking in the bar--and dressed in a dark sweater and jeans. He exuded an almost magnetic confidence (evident in his knowing grin and his approach), but there was something distinctively off about him, something almost vampiric in the red of his lip, the dark glitter of his eyes, the narrow contours of his face.

Determined to maintain her sangfroid, Cris returned, "That's a really terrible way to introduce yourself to someone," and looked back to her beer.

He stayed exactly where he was, didn't budge, and his lack of retort or physical movement was disconcerting. As much as Cris wanted to remain nonchalant, enough time passed to make the young man's stare painfully awkward, and at length, she turned back to him.

"Listen, young man," (she hoped to be condescending enough to deter him), "I'm always alone because I don't like people."

The moment the last word left her mouth, Cris found that she was speaking to air. The barstool was empty. He'd been there--she was sure of it. When she'd turned to tell him to go, he'd been sitting right there, and it wasn't as if she'd even seen him disappear, poof into thin air--he'd been there, surely, and then he wasn't. It was almost as if some alternate layer of reality had flickered into and then back out of hers.

But Cris didn't believe in alternate realities or multi-verses or anything like that. She believed in the only reality that was possible to believe in after what she'd encountered fifteen years ago. This little play-acting that she and the others performed on the surface of it all was nothing more than an illusion. She knew it and yet was forced to abide by its rules, for if she didn't, she'd surely lose her mind. Still, whatever had just happened--she didn't know. She just couldn't explain it. But at least he was gone; a quick scan of the establishment told her as much. He'd been entirely unsettling, and now that she thought of it, she couldn't even quite recall what he'd looked like. Maybe she was losing it. Maybe it was time to go home.

Suddenly, an odd prickling sensation crept down Cris's scalp and neck, across her shoulders as she became aware that she felt entirely wet, as if a drink had been poured into her lap. Her initial thought was that she'd accidentally tipped her beer, but the glass was firm in her hand, and her second thought was that she'd somehow wet herself, but upon leaning back enough to see her body, she realized that the entire crotch of her pants was blossoming red. Horrified, Cris scooted off the stool, grabbing her coat and holding it in front of her, leaving a veritable puddle of blood on the chair. As she stood there, though, her frenetic mind telling her to leave immediately, she felt liquid moving along her legs and looked down to find red streaming onto her shoes and the floor.

The beer glass dropped from her hand, shattering to bits and pieces. Any eyes she hadn't already attracted for her erratic movements were absolutely on her now. "I'm sorry!" was all she could think to cry, though her apology wasn't for the glass. She began to stammer something else but all at once caught sight of her barstool, saw it was free of any blood, and looking down, she found that her attire was entirely unaffected; nothing at all had happened. The blood--it'd been as illusory, as mercurial as the man who'd spoken to her.

The woman behind the bar leaned toward her. "You all right, hon?"

And Cris, who'd always prided herself on her insouciance, pulled together, made up something cliché about seeing a mouse, and hurried from Biggie's as fast as she could without making more of a scene.