She'd been walking home through the familiar streets, half-thinking about dinner — then the dark shadows. Something was in them, and a growl. Her body locked down before her mind caught up. She couldn't move.
He'd been asleep on the couch when he woke to the sound of the basement door. Two in the morning. He wasn't supposed to be alone. The house had gone too quiet. His body pressed flat under the blanket; he couldn't breathe right.
She'd been driving home in the slush, the kind of road she'd driven a hundred times — then the wheel turned and didn't respond. The headlights coming the other way filled the windshield. Her hands wouldn't do anything useful.