It had been two days already, and no response from Nancy. Quentin had texted her about the latest news in Springwood. They were building a children's hospital over the burned grounds of Badham Preschool.

A children's hospital…at a place where a groundskeeper molested and mutilated several children. Didn't anybody ever dig into the history of this town?

But Quentin really couldn't fault outsiders. He grew up in Springwood, and had no clue about what the parents did to Freddy Krueger. How could somebody else find the truth? When Quentin read about Baker & Ford's new hospital project, there was no mention about there ever being a preschool. The Springwood residents didn't protest one bit. They buried the scandal once again. But then, there were state-of-the-art hospitals all over Ohio, and Springwood only had the dilapidated Westin Hills. Who wouldn't say yes to improved medical care?

While construction was being done, Baker & Ford's Children's Hospital (the company) rented a nearby space as a makeshift clinic. As he stood outside of the new facility, Quentin checked his phone again. No missed calls from Nancy. Maybe she's taking the news hard thought Quentin It's not like Elm Street was a happy place for her.

It wasn't a happy place for Quentin, either. But he could legitimately say he was a student journalist at Ohio State University. He might gain access to the construction site, and check up about the patients. He needed to know if the children were dreaming of Freddy Krueger. Damn it, Nancy, I need you for this. I don't expect you to fly over here, but some support would be nice. Quentin chided himself for being so selfish.

There was no time for self-loathing, as a young woman dressed in a lab coat stepped out of a side entrance. She desperately fetched out a cigarette from her designer purse. Quentin figured her to be about 22 or 24. Her pixie black hair stuck out in awkward angles, and her green eyes look tired. Quentin didn't give himself time to think if she was a good "interview" candidate.

"Excuse me, I was wondering if I could have a moment of your time," said Quentin, in his best serious journalist voice.

"I'm on a break, so make it fast," said the young woman, as she lit her cigarette.

"I'm with the Frontline at…" said Quentin.

"At Ohio State University…yeah, I know the school…come on, my break's almost over," finished the young woman. She took a hearty drag.

"Okay, well, I'm doing a story about the new children's hospital, and…" said Quentin.

"So call the press team then…here's their number," replied the young woman, as she took a business card from her coat pocket and wrote a number on it.

"Here…hope you get your 'big scoop.' "If you want you can flip over the card and get the free sandwich it promises" said the woman with a sarcastic chuckle.

"Look this place has a terrible history," said Quentin.

"Indian burial ground?" replied the woman, as she stubbed out the cigarette with her high-heeled boot. "I'm sure the attorneys took care of that. They seem to take care of everything," she said over her shoulder as she headed back in.

"The preschool that was here had some bad shit associated with it. The town is uneasy about a children's hospital because of it, but nobody is saying anything. I'm trying to write something good, because this place needs a hospital. Can you help me out?"

Of course it was a lie, but Quentin hoped it would be enough for her to bite. After all, if you're a student intern (which he figured she was), you don't want to be out of a job anytime soon. Especially with such a bad economy.

"Are you sure you want to take this on?" asked the young woman.

"I grew up here. This is my town. I'm just looking out for it," responded Quentin.

"Fine…but you need to contact the CEO over in Columbus first…" said the young woman.

"You know, I'd rather just interview you if that's all right…" said Quentin.

The young woman spoke over him. "…you'll have a better chance of getting the director to agree to the story. He's wary of bad press."

"How do I…?" asked Quentin.

"Give me your phone," demanded the young woman. Quentin complied. She went into his address book, and typed in a phone number. "Remember, I didn't give this to you."

"I'll remember," said Quentin. "Is this his direct line?"

"It's better to call him in the morning. He's more receptive when his blood sugar isn't so low."

"I don't know what to say," said Quentin.

"Don't mention it," said the young woman. "I'm late now. The nurse practitioner's going to be pissed."

"What's you name?" asked Quentin.

"Mackenzie Ford."

"As in…?" asked Quentin.

"As in, yes, my great-grandfather was one of the founders. Guilty. Nepotism at its finest," replied Mackenzie. She closed the side entrance door behind her.

Oh shit thought Quentin What did I just get myself into?