Lisa wouldn’t stop crying in the car. Dan kept saying it was “just a panic attack,” but the cuts on her palm were too neat, too deliberate. Sarah bandaged them in the kitchen while Mike poured whiskey like it was water. Nobody touched the lasagna. At 11:47 p.m. the power snapped off—total blackout, the kind that makes your ears ring. Then every light in the house flared on at once, brighter than daylight. The smart thermostat on the wall read 66.6 °F and started counting down. 66.5… 66.4… Sarah lunged for the breaker box in the basement. The metal door was ice-cold and wet. When she yanked it open, a single child’s handprint glowed on the inside—made of phosphorescent mold that hadn’t been there that morning. The countdown hit 66.0 and every bulb exploded in perfect unison.
