There's an eclipse.

At first, Kate and Warren though that evening was just catching up to them—sunlight usually persisted until seven o'clock, and then it began its steady transition into night. Not today, however—when they pulled up to the blue house with white accents and stepped out of the Hatchback, they got a good look at the anomaly as it happened.

"Oh man—would you look at that!" Warren pointed to it, "That isn't supposed to happen!"

"What do you mean?"

"The last eclipse happened back in May, and the next one wasn't supposed to happen until a couple weeks from now, and definitely not anywhere on our side of the Earth," he explained, "Something ominous is going on here."

"…agreed," the blonde murmurs. She spares one last glance as the moon passes across the sun; and beheld the halo of light, and the darkness that passed them by.

They walked up to the house. It was well-kept; the grass lawn was trimmed, and the concrete pathway leading up to the door was clean of dirt and blemishes. The press of the doorbell brought to them the kind visage of Joyce, who wore a checkered apron and a warm smile.

"Howdy, come right on in! I was just putting on the final touches," she invites them inside, and they kindly oblige, "Dining table's down the hallway, make yourselves comfortable!"

To their left was the kitchen, where pots and pans were laden with tasty portions of meat and vegetables—it seems Joyce was planning on serving a hearty supper. The hallway directly ahead of them led to an open space with a dining table and chairs, as well as a couch peeking out from the right-hand side. A bit to the right of this was a flight of stairs carving a path up to the second floor, and further beside this stairwell was a door that gave access to the garage. Warren and Kate refrained from entertaining their curiosity, and walked straight to the dining table.

"A lovely place you have here, ma'am," Warren commented, and was replied to, "Why, thank you. I've been helping my husband with it ever since we got it appraised. Lord knows everybody's trying to keep the value of their houses up."

The Great Depression of 2008 hammered a cold and miserable reality into every honest American worker. Housing prices plummeted, the average American's value to leverage against real estate agencies was decimated. Five years later, and folks were still recovering from the slump. Most people have never been the same since.

Warren and Kate sat down next to each other at the dining table. They were kind and patient. Both would whisper in praise about a cute family photo hung on the wall, or gawk in amazement at the large plasma-screen TV in the living room. Joyce comes from the kitchen a few minutes after, her arms carrying the servings with practiced ease.

"Well, here you are," the dishes are laid onto the table mats, brimming with food and steaming hot. These were platters of chicken lathered in a sweet and tangy sauce, and with it was a side of rice and steamed vegetables.

"Thank you, ma'am," they impart, and the older woman scoffed in amusement, "I thought I told y'all to call me Joyce. I ain't that old, y'know."

"Yes, Joyce—You got it, Joyce."

"Go ahead and dig in, I still have to clean up the pans," she returned to the kitchen and went about tidying the space up. Warren and Kate were content to begin eating in tranquil silence, and waited patiently as Joyce returned with her own plate and a cup of water. The woman sat down across the table from them, and admired the way both Warren and Kate relished the food served to them. She chuckled proudly as their eyes lit up with amazement.

"This is really good," Warren spoke between mouthfuls, "What d'you do to make this?"

"I've got this special recipe passed down from my mother's side of the family," Joyce recalled, "Before we moved to Oregon, we used to live in South Carolina, and my parents were the owners of this small restaurant in the town we lived in. Everybody wanted a taste of what we served, and that's how I got to learn cooking all kinds of food. Glad to see I haven't lost my touch."

"Definitely better than my dad's cooking," Graham remarked, "He's got a curse placed on him, I swear it—he'll say he did everything right, but every time I take a bite out of what he cooks, I get hit with the shivers! It's terrible!"

Joyce chuckled along to that, "Better get the local pastor to come down and help you with that. Lord knows what kind of demon's possessed him!"

"I know, right?" the boy shook his head in amusement, and returned to his meal. Joyce followed suit, the sounds of knives and forks upon plates was all that could be heard. However, there was a lingering question at the back of someone's mind. Kate bit her lip, hesitant as to whether she should ask, but her courage came to the forefront and she dared—

"…Joyce?"

"Yes, dear?"

"Have you…have you found out when you can visit your daughter?"

Joyce's smile was erased instantly. She glanced off to nowhere, and sighed.

"Ah, no. Not yet," she then sets her silverware down, and pinches her brows as she recounts, "I've not even gotten the chance to talk to my husband about when his next day off is. He usually gets weekends off, but there's never any certainty to it."

Warren and Kate nodded sympathetically. They knew well about uncertainties, especially when their mothers and fathers had to break their promises about going to graduations and planned get-togethers.

Joyce was certainly no exception. They could see the regret, perched there in the wrinkles on her brow, and pulling downward upon her taut lips. The woman was on a thoughtful journey that neither of them could imagine.

"…have either of you met my daughter, Chloe, by chance?"

They shook their heads in the negative, "No, Joyce. We've seen her in passing, but never had the chance to talk to her."

"Fair enough," the mother nodded, "Chloe, she…she was supposed to have a normal life like everyone else. Her father, Will, passed away when she was young, and she went through all kinds of troubled phases. I tried my best to help her, but it was hard doing it by myself. I felt dreadful that I'd not be able to keep up with everything going on after Will's passing. I eventually remarried, but that didn't help with my connection to Chloe. She never moved on from her father's passing, and try as I might, I couldn't just convince her to do so."

They watched the tears brimming in the grieving mother's eyes, "She doesn't stay here often. She'll go out doing who-knows-what with whoever she happens to be with. She had some friends at Blackwell before she was expelled, and that seems to be who she'll hang out with the most. She had this one friend—Rachel, if I'm remembering correctly—who was her best friend during that time. I don't keep up with Rachel, so I don't know if she and Chloe are still friends, but that was all I could tell about her social life, outside of when Max was around."

Moments in the junkyard came back to mind. Warren and Kate glanced at each other, yet said nothing. Neither was willing to update the matriarch, and so, they let her continue.

"Max was the closest thing Chloe had to a friend. I knew the Caulfields from way back when, and we'd have family get-togethers and Max n' Chloe would play for hours on end. You couldn't separate them even if you wanted to," Joyce recalled with a forlorn smile, "They'd dress up as pirates and go on their adventures around town. And Will, he would play along with them sometimes, and that was when they were happiest. Max's parents and I would stay at home and be waiting for them to come back—they'd be at it for the whole day sometimes."

"…have either of you talked to Max, before…?"

"Yes, Joyce," they replied simultaneously. Kate and Warren then beckoned each other to take the lead in the conversation, prompting an amused chuckle from the older woman.

"I'll go first," Warren finally relented, "I met Max right about when I met Kate, and some other friends of ours. I've known Max for just a couple months, but in that time I've come to realize how helpful Max is when she's with me. I'm taking photography as an elective for this semester, but I don't share the same time as Max and Kate, so I'm mostly alone when it comes to my work—"

Kate shot him a curious glance at the admission, but he pressed on, "See, I'm not good with photography and how to use a camera, but Max—she's practically a professional! She's got it down to a science; it's like every detail is set in place for her to do her magic. I was having trouble finding inspiration for an assignment the teacher gave us, so I texted Max and asked for her help, and she spent the whole day with me to help me figure out what motivates me. I still think back to that day, about how she treated me like a good friend even despite not knowing me for a long time."

He had a look in his eye, a longing that could not be described. Even now, both women could only wonder what emotion compelled him to speak so highly of this particular moment, shared by circumstance, "I may not know Max as intimately as you do, Joyce, but I can tell she's a good person. She's the kind of friend that gives her heart to those she cares about, to go all the way even when she doesn't have to. And…I'd hate to lose someone like that."

"…me too, Warren," Kate seconded, "Max is like that to me as well. I…I remember the time she stayed all night with me, after I had a bad experience at a party. Even despite having a busy schedule and dealing with her own problems, she took the time to make sure that I was okay, even when she did not have to."

Warren nods in recognition. He knows what she speaks of. Joyce, on the other hand, listens carefully at Kate's recount, "I know she stayed with me all night, because when I woke up the next morning, she was resting on the side of my bed, her hand holding onto mine. And afterwards, when I had gone to the police to speak about the incident, Max showed me her drawings because she knew that I liked to draw whenever I'm stressed, and that still comes to mind whenever I think of her. She…besides my family, she's the first person in my life to care that much, to go that far."

"That's Max, alright," Joyce agreed, "She was like that with Chloe, always caring, always trying. She hasn't changed much in that regard. She's all or nothing when it comes to her friends—whether it's empathy, or compassion, or whatever it may be."

"Even pranks," Warren smirked, "Especially that one time back in September—"

Kate raised an eyebrow, "Wait, are you talking about—?"

"Yep," he grinned. Even Joyce couldn't help herself, "Why, has Max been getting into some mischief?"

"Only by proxy," Warren clarifies, "There was this one guy who liked to steal things from other people's lockers. Everybody knew who he was, but nobody could technically stop him unless they caught him in the act. This one time, he stole my binder with all my chemistry notes in it, and I got screwed on a quiz because I forgot to memorize the notes. I plotted to catch him by making an improvised, self-activated confetti can, but I knew he kept tabs on me to make sure I wouldn't be around to catch him raiding my locker, and he'd see me setting up the can and know something was amiss. So, I asked Max to help me prepare it by distracting the guy long enough for me to set it up, and sure enough—he caught a face full of sticky confetti the next time he opened my locker!"

Joyce was quite surprised by the story, and gave a cautious chuckle. Kate, however, was ecstatic at the tale, "So it was you who stopped him? Thank God—I've lost two notebooks in the span of a month thanks to him! It was so troublesome that I gave up on using my locker altogether."

"Yeah, the best part was when Max came rushing into my class to give me a heads up. We saw the aftermath, right when he got escorted by security to the nurse's office. Apparently, he ended up inhaling some of the confetti, but after what he did, it serves him right!"

And though they laughed at the good memories, both of them could see with passing glances the tears blooming in Joyce's eyes, see the strain in her smile. She knew of memories they could not even fathom, could see more clearly the soul of their own friend better than they could.

"…Joyce?"

She snapped from her reverie, "Oh, pardon me—I got lost there for a second," then she smiled sincerely, "Thank y'all, for this. I've been under a lot of stress, and having a chance to talk through this with someone was just what I needed."

"Of course, ma'am—ah, Joyce."

The woman chuckled light-heartedly at Warren's slip-up, "Old habits die hard, don't they?"

"Yes, they do," he concurred, "If you wouldn't mind, is it okay if we exchange numbers? I'd like to know when the best time is for my friends and I to come visit."

"Good idea," Joyce stood up, "Wait here, I'll be right back with a pen and paper."

They finished their meals and waited patiently for the woman to come back.

"It's a shame Dana and Juliet couldn't join us," Warren absently commented, "This has been more than helpful in figuring this whole mystery out."

"You're right," Kate hummed, but her brows pinched with worry. She saw the darkness painting the sky outside, and inquired, "I hope we have time to get back to our dorms, it's getting late."

Warren was about to give his assurance, when a peal of thunder echoed outside, and the grass shivered under a gust of wind. A storm is eclipsing the town, and would be persistent throughout the night. He whistled in awe.

"Damn, driving's going to be rough."

"…should we leave now?"

"If you want to," he agrees, "I've driven in storms before. There was this one time when my family was driving back from visiting relatives, and my Dad wanted me to try getting behind the wheel—and then, five minutes afterwards, we got stuck in a thunderstorm. Thankfully, I held my own and we got back safe, but it was definitely stressful. I'll ask Joyce, I'm sure she will understand."

He sees that the blonde is still nervous, and dares to take her hand in his own—she blushes at the contact, but does not shy away. Soft silver eyes look up to his green ones, and his smile gives her hope.

There's the sound of footfalls from the hallway. Warren doesn't waste a second, "Joyce, I'd like to say—"

He stutters, and gasps. Kate gasps too—the navy-blue color of Blackwell's security uniform scares the both of them instantly. It's not Joyce.

A suspicious frown is leveled upon them. The man slows his walk until he is standing a few paces from the table, then stops. His mustache seems to ruffle with agitation, his brow pinched in distrust. They shivered in their chairs, not from what is unknown, but from dreadful familiarity.

There stood David Madsen, the Head of Blackwell Security. With him was the power to bring any poor soul in front of the principal for infractions of the school's code of conduct. A hard-ass, a tyrant in his own right. One never speaks to him without wishing they hadn't.

This was why neither of them spoke up. They sat there in silence. Madsen took his time, his glare passing between the both of them.

"…what are you two doing in my house?"

"…uhm, well," Warren gulped, "y-you see, sir—"

"David, you're back!" Joyce suddenly reappears, and moves eagerly to embrace her husband. His posture shifts as he catches her embrace, and gives a loving kiss in return, "Yes, I was able to clock out early, and just got back. I missed you."

But he turns back to glaring at them, "Honey, why are these people here?"

"I invited them over for dinner, they offered to come visit Chloe and I wanted to show my appreciation," Joyce answered, "They're students from Blackwell, actually—"

"It's alright, I know who they are," he interrupts. They both visibly shrink at the statement.

"…well, I was going to let them get back to Blackwell, since it's getting late. They asked to exchange numbers," she gestured to the slip of paper in her hand, "so that they can visit when the time's right."

"I'll take care of that," David offered, taking the note from Joyce, much to the two students' dismay, "From what I can tell, you've been on your feet the whole day now, you should get some rest."

"Ah, well…are you sure?"

Warren and Kate both try to answer—

"Yes, hon'," David smiles at his wife, "I can take things from here. Go on, I'll be with you soon."

Joyce seems aware, if only subconsciously, of what has gone unspoken. She can see the shift in tone, and the tension in the air. But at this moment a yawn overtakes her, and she relents. A parting wave is all the woman gives, and then she slips away. They're alone, now.

David turns back, and takes a seat at the table across from them. The note in his hand is crushed and rolled into a jumbled piece of rubbish. He's boxed them in, there's nowhere to go. Their hands are still held together, and neither of them intends to let go.

"I'd like to make this quick, for all of us," Madsen gruffed, his attention singling out someone in particular, "Why were you there, when it happened?"

Kate ducks her eyes to the table. She does not dare look up at him. Yet, she knows better than to give him nothing, "I…"

"I was outside, sir," Warren tried to act dumb, "I didn't see anything—"

"Not you," the man growled, "I know damn well what you did and why you did it."

"H-how so?"

"Because I saw you. I remember you because of the fact that you were among the first to be hauling ass out of the Main," Madsen noted pointedly, "But there's someone who really knows why I'm asking this."

Kate stopped Warren by squeezing his hand, and he held his tongue, becoming a silent witness to this tense interrogation. In turn, Marsh gathered her courage to address the interrogator, "I was inside, behind the lockers. I was there the whole time."

"Why?" he pressed. Kate shivered under the pressure, but still answered, "I—I was warned of what was going to happen. Max texted me to hide, so that's what I did."

"…Max?"

"The other girl," Kate reminded him, "I was carrying her out. She was—she is—my friend."

David hummed in interest, "…you saw who did it, then."

Kate reluctantly nodded. David waited patiently, and she obliged, "It was Nathan Prescott. He had a gun, and he shot Max and Chloe."

Madsen swore under his breath, then, "What did you tell the police?"

"I…uhm."

"Did you tell them about Prescott?" he tried again, and was rewarded with an answer, "No. Max, she…she told me not to trust them."

Gone was the suspicion, and a pensive brow caught their nervous glares. Madsen scratched absently at his mustache, and seemed to reach a conclusion in his head. He gruffed, "Your friend is smart. There's too many unknowns in the department for anyone to be sure. Truth be told, I'm fairly certain that I've already painted a target on my back just for doing my job."

"…sir?" they cautiously inquired.

"You kids are not the only ones who've got a bone to pick with the Prescotts," he reminded, "I've suspected Nathan for a long time, but I've not gotten the chance to pin him down. Ever since the disappearance of that one girl, Rachel Amber, I've had my eyes on Prescott and his gang. Buncha' rotten brats, they are…"

Kate and Warren glanced at each other, stricken with disbelief. Madsen had been assumed to be another link in the long chain of Prescott puppets, but here he spoke with contempt for the tyrants, his ambitions aligned with theirs almost perfectly. What luck!

"…and the second I get to drop the hammer on Nathan, is the second I'll retire and live out the rest of my days in peace," his sharp glare addressed them again, "Of course, the both of you wouldn't happen to know anything about that, would you?"

This was their chance. They both knew it, and they trembled now with eagerness. To have each other for support was one thing, but to have the Head of Security on their side? Suddenly, thoughts of Nathan locked behind bars were not so intangible and far-fetched.

"We…we do, sir," Kate mustered, "We may have found Rachel's body in the junkyard, it seems as though someone had wanted to get rid of her for some reason—we don't know exactly."

His glare narrows, "The junkyard? How did you find her so easily?"

"I…uhm," the blonde stumbled, "What I meant to say was that we suspect that she was buried in the junkyard, sir—it was hinted at by Max, she gave us clues about it—"

"How does your friend know so much about this?" he pressed, "I've not seen her face around here for some time. Isn't she one of the new transfers for this semester?"

"Yes, sir—"

"So then," he interjects, "How does she know about Rachel, who disappeared before she came here?"

Kate tried to answer—and realized she didn't know how. What answer would be sufficient? The truth, surely—but did she have the truth, or a perception of it? Would it even be enough for him?

"I…I don't know," was all she gave.

Madsen's frown is back, and this time with a vengeance, "…are you trying to pull something on me, missy?"

Immediately, Kate shook her head, "N-no, sir! I'm not trying anything—!"

"Then what, you expect me to simply believe what you've said? That your friend somehow knew that she was going to end up in a confrontation with Nathan Prescott in the bathrooms, that she just happens to know Rachel Amber and where she's located?"

"Sir, please—I don't know every reason why Max knows what she knows, or why she's set us on this path, but we've got no reason not to believe her! She was threatening Prescott, you know well what happens when somebody does that. We're like you, we just want to know the truth—please sir, you have to believe me!"

"I've heard enough," he growls, his patience running thin, "Unless you plan on telling me the whole story, I suggest you leave, now."

They couldn't. Kate and Warren glanced at each other, and realized it simultaneously. They couldn't, even if they wanted to. And with this in mind, they silently stood from their seats, and shuffled to the exit. Madsen did not bark at them anymore, but he followed close behind as they moved, and once they passed the threshold he shut the door on them as a final goodbye.

They were not looking forward to the idea of returning to Blackwell anymore.