To the memory of the two people

whose passings in 2002 made this story happen:

My grandfather, Robert Lee Vaughn

My great aunt, Rose Matern Pearl

All these people helped in various ways to put this book in your hands: Jo Anne and Larry Vaughn, Rob and Deb Vaughn, Al and Mary Linder, Max Campanella, Michael Bateman, Stacy Hague-Hill, David Hartwell, Dan Hooker, Ashley Grayson, and Carolyn Grayson. And, tangentially, though I didn’t even know it at the time: J. Michael Straczynski, Jessica Steen, Larry Hama, Peter Jackson, Anonymous 4, Edith Hamilton, and, of course, Virgil.

Finally, after driving all night, Evie arrived.

Close to town, bells and candy canes made of faded tinsel decorated the telephone poles. The same decorations had hung on the poles every year for as long as Evie could remember; they had no sparkle left. Or maybe she was too tired to notice. In the last two days, she’d only had a nap outside Albuquerque.

Hopes Fort, Colorado, was one of those small towns that dotted the Great Plains, where Main Street turned into the state highway and the post office was attached to the feed store. Hopes Fort had been dying, one boarded-up building at a time, for the last fifty years. Still, somehow the town held on, like the aged relative whose chronic illness never seemed to worsen despite all predictions to the contrary. The holiday decorations, no matter how tattered, still went up every year.

Her phone beeped, and she hooked the hands-free over her ear.

Bruce scratched at her on the other end of the connection. “Evie?”

“Bruce, speak up. The connection’s funky.”

“Have you seen the news?” Panic edged his voice. She’d been out of L.A. for only two days—what dire crisis could possibly have struck?