She'd been walking home through the familiar streets, half-thinking about dinner — then suddenly, she was terrified. The dark shadows — there was something 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 — then suddenly, he was terrified. It was two in the morning. He wasn't supposed to be alone. The house had gone too quiet. His body locked down under the blanket.

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, and she was terrified. The headlights coming the other way filled the windshield. Her hands wouldn't do anything useful.