Julia Harriman scrolled through her phone as she stirred the mashed potatoes, her brow furrowed in consternation. She was on Facebook, that great, wild wilderness of cat memes, political bickering, and childhood friends with whom you no longer have anything in common with.

There had been another mass shooting, this one in Seattle, and everyone was fighting over whether or not to ban guns. AR-15s are a penis replacement for men who don't have one, a liberal ex-coworker of hers posted. Great here come the gun grabbers again because that worked soooo well with drugs a distant cousin opined.

Sigh.

She rarely checked her social media accounts for just this reason. A centrist who leaned left on some things and right on others, Julia fit with neither party, and had been called everything from a Trumper to a commie when she expressed an opinion one way or another. She finally stopped and limited herself to no more than three visits to Facebook or Twitter a day. She was better off for it, anyway. Being constantly bombarded by negativity wasn't healthy and it only served to put everyone in a bad mood.

Setting the phone aside, she stirred the potatoes, cut the burner, and leaned back to see into the living room. She could just make out Tom's legs on the coffee table. That was a no-no, but he had a bad day at work, so she'd let him slide just this once. "It's almost done."

"Alright," he called.

He got up, stretched, and shuffled into the kitchen on socked feet. He opened the cabinet above the sink and took down three plates while she opened the oven and peeked in. The chicken was nearly done, just five more -

Upstairs, Brody began to bark, a high, mad, ferocious sound that sent her heart splashing into her stomach. Call it paranoia, call it superstition, call it mother's intuition, but she knew in an instant that something was terribly wrong.

Brody's voice broke off in a long howl, and before she knew she was moving, Julia was rushing to her daughter's side. Tom, picking up his wife's urgency, let the plates clatter to the counter and followed.

On the stairs, the barking was louder and more insistent, a sound of distress if she had ever heard one. At the top, she swung around the newel post and sprinted the last twenty feet to Meagan's room.

"Meagan!"

At the door, she froze. Meagan lay on her bed, arms thrown out, back arching off the mattress and body violently convulsing. Her head whipped from side-to-side and white foam bubbled from her lips. Julia screamed and Tom all but shoved her out of his way to get to their daughter. "Meagan?"

He dropped onto the bed and dragged her head into his lap; she bucked, shook, and gurgled deep in the back of her throat. Julia just stood there, cold terror washing through her.

"Call 911!" Tom shouted, and that brought her back to reality. She patted her pockets, didn't feel her phone, and blanked. Where was it? WHERE WAS IT?

She remembered leaving it on the counter and started to dash away, but stopped when Meagan spoke.

"Don't," she said in a low, dark voice that wasn't hers. Julia's breath caught and she turned, eyes wide and rimmed with pink. The little girl stared at her with void, milky white eyes. Tom gaped down at her in shock, and Brody shrank into the corner. "If you call anyone," Meagan said, "I'll kill her."

And with that, Lincoln Loud entered the home stretch of his novel, House of Shadows. It was Saturday, March 25, and Lynn was packing for the trip back to college. Conflicting emotions raged in Lincoln's chest and he didn't know whether to be happy, sad, proud, or all of the above. He didn't want her to go, but it was for the best. They were in it for the long haul, and he would be here waiting when she got back. His heart belonged to her and only her, and he trusted his her heart was his as well.

He closed the laptop, pushed away from the desk, and got up. His brain burst with ideas and he really wanted to get them on the page before he lost them, but that could wait.

Downstairs, Lynn shoved things into a duffle bag, then hugged Mom and Dad. The others were off on their own weekend adventures and had given Lynn their well-wishes earlier. "Need some help?" Lincoln asked and nodded to a box on the sofa. A baseball bat jutted from one side.

Lynn's eyes darted from his feet to his face, taking him in and committing his image to memory like a daguerreotype. "Sure," she said.

He picked up the box, and Lynn hugged Mom and Dad once more. "I love you, honey," Mom said.

"Be careful and let us know when you get there," Dad added.

"I will," Lynn said.

Done, she and Lincoln went outside. The afternoon was bright and cool, the wind blowing from the east and rustling the dead trees along the street. Lincoln's face turned hot and red in moments, and Lynn's ponytail danced crazily around like a particularly festive noose.

That was a morbid analogy, but it came to Lincoln before anything else.

To be fair, he was writing a horror novel where a ghost straight up murders a bunch of people in a wrongheaded quest for vengeance that selfishly ends the life of a little girl he had come to love as though she were his own daughter. If that doesn't put you in a morbid mood, you have no fucking soul.

The truck sat in the driveway like a shit stain in someone's underwear.

He and Lynn took their time getting to it. "You think that thing will make it?" he asked and jutted his chin at the truck.

Lynn shrugged. "Probably."

Last week, she and Flip spent several afternoons working on it. Outside, it looked just as bad as always, but lift the hood, and you'd be shocked at how clean, modern, and functional the engine block was. They fixed the brake lines, changed the brake pads, put in a new alternator, replaced the carburetor, and did a bunch of other gearfag shit that leaked out of Lincoln's head the moment Lynn stopped telling him about it.

While it looked a lot better than it had, it was still a rusted hunk of crap that could very well collapse at any second.

Lincoln sat the box in the bed and Lynn shoved her bag into the cab. "Well, this is it," she said and rubbed the back of her neck. A gust of wind played in her bangs and her brown eyes stared emptily down at Lincoln's feet. Desolate, that's how she looked.

And desolate is how Lincoln felt.

"Yeah," Lincoln said and flicked his gaze to the ground, "I guess it is."

Neither one made any move to leave. As long as they stayed her, they wouldn't have to part; they could wring the moment for everything it was worth.

But it wouldn't last forever.

Few things do.

"I'm going to miss you," Lincoln said.

"I'm going to miss you too."

He wanted to kiss her as badly as she wanted to be kissed, but he settled for a hug. He couldn't resist brushing his fingers lovingly through her hair. Would that look strange to anyone watching? Maybe it would, but he didn't really care right now. Lynn was leaving and she wouldn't be back, full time, for quite a while.

"I love you," she said.

"I love you too," Lincoln said. He held her at arm's length and forced a wan smile. Gem-like tears streaked down Lynn's freckled cheeks and Lincoln's lips quivered. "It's only for a little while," he said in an attempt to cheer her up.

She took a deep breath. "It's going to feel like forever."

Lincoln couldn't argue that. He already missed her dearly and she hadn't even left yet.

"Maybe," he said, "but forever really starts when you get back."

He hazarded stroking her cheek, and a smile crested across her lips like the sun peeking through stormy clouds. "Yeah," she said. "Forever."

Lincoln smiled. "You better get going," he said. "Or else I'll change my mind."

Lynn hugged him and then, reluctantly, they let each other go. She climbed into the truck and pulled the door closed behind her, and Lincoln poked his head in. "Be careful and text me when you get there."

"I will," she promised.

Throwing caution to the wind, he kissed her. She missed a beat, then kissed him back with the intensity of a woman bidding permanent farewell to the man she loved. "It's just for a little while," he reminded her.

"Then we have forever," Lynn said.

The dreamy cast of her eyes made Lincoln's heart swell.

"Forever," he confirmed.

He stepped back, and blowing him a tentative kiss, Lynn started the engine, blacked into the street, and left.

Lincoln watched the truck until it disappeared in the distance, then he went back inside.

He had a novel to finish.