Chapter One
The adventure begins!
Every civilization has its bedtime stories and the Union of the Seventy-Seven Planets had built a galaxy on theirs. After all, bedtime stories were almost all they had left.
True, there were records from the last two thousand years or so. But anything before that? The answers to their deepest questions about who they were and how the Union even came to be? A mystery—for the billions of citizens across the Setrix Galaxy.
There was an abundance of legends but a scarcity of any kind of hard factual evidence.
Across the galaxy, a similar story was told, though with each generation the truth seemed to get further diluted: once, long ago, there was a galaxy-spanning war. No one remembered who fought it. No one knew what it was about. Only that it ended in the formation of the Union. And then—everything else vanished.
All of it.
The ancient languages. The books. The designs for engines, for satellites, for cities and shoes and spoons. Gone. People called it The Purge. No one even knew how it all happened, and they certainly didn’t know why.
Without any written records, historical artifacts, or centralized archives, the truth dissolved fast. People remembered what had happened—but memory faded, details blurred, and knowledge splintered. Skills once common—how to build, how to repair, how to understand the tools of civilization—vanished in a generation. A few tried to preserve what they knew, but they passed on too little, too late. Even now, some technological relics from the pre-Purge era remained scattered across the galaxy: some still functional, most simply fossils.
Some claimed the final battle destroyed a universal archive. Others blamed a mythical child who accidentally deleted the galaxy’s servers. One widely mocked legend even involved a vengeful fairy, punishing the galaxy for the war by burning all the books.
But there was one story almost everyone believed, or at the very least wanted to believe.
The legend of Brava Sentalla.
A great starship. Two protectors.
Not warriors—rescuers. They appeared when hope was lost, ferrying out refugees, shielding orphanages, evacuating hospitals. Some stories said the Protectors General were boys. Others, gray-bearded men. Maybe there were dozens over time. Maybe they were actually women. Maybe it was all fiction.
But everyone knew the iconic shape of the ship. A sculpture of it hung in the Great Pyramid of Sabria, near the edge of the galaxy. It had been designed by the artisan Tagalleus, who claimed to have seen it himself. True, he had three heads and a history of neurological trauma. Still—his story endured.
But here on Earth, in rural Jasper Creek, Tennessee—in a rusted-out Ford Ranger outside a big-box grocery store—there were no bedtime stories. Only cold, hard reality.
It was ten o’clock at night when seventeen-year-old Zane Harper pulled into the cracked concrete lot of Red Ridge Market and parked beneath a buzzing streetlamp that should have been replaced long ago.
The old Ford Ranger coughed as it shut off. Zane shifted the truck into park, the gear stick grinding like it wanted to retire. His grandfather had left him two things four months ago: this truck, and a mountain of credit card debt.
Outside, the night air was thick with Appalachian summer—humid, pine-scented, and still. The smell of rain from earlier in the evening still clung to the pavement.
Zane leaned forward, elbows on the wheel, and rubbed his eyes, careful not to close them for too long. He’d already done school and work before even getting to this job.
Getting out of the car, he swapped his battered leather jacket for the red apron hanging off the gearshift. He caught a glimpse of himself in the side mirror—messy hair, tired eyes, a face too young for how tired he felt.
Another day, another dollar.
“Hey buddy!” a voice called out as a heavy hand slapped his back.
Zane turned. Carl—the store’s long-time stock manager—had approached him with a grin and a tired gait.
“Ready for another thrilling evening stocking canned soup and frozen peas?”
“I haven’t been able to stop thinking about it all day,” Zane said dryly, falling into step beside him.
Carl chuckled. “Well I tell ya, after fifteen years, the magic kinda fades.”
They stepped through the sliding glass doors and into a blast of over-bright fluorescent lights and floor polish.
Inside, the store was quiet—just the hum of coolers and the occasional scuff of a lone cart.
A few minutes later, they clocked in and joined the rest of the night crew near the break room for the pre-stock meeting.
The night manager, clipboard in hand and enthusiasm on backorder, stood beneath a flickering fixture. “Okay, folks. Let’s settle in. Long night ahead.”
The crew—maybe eight or nine in all—stood in matching red aprons. Some were just out of high school. One man with a full-face tattoo. A couple of older guys with pasts they didn’t talk about.
All of them were there for the same reason: to get boxes on shelves, paychecks in pockets, and dodge the occasional lonely customer hunting for ice cream at one in the morning.
Zane opened his eyes. Either he’d blinked, or nodded off for a few minutes while holding a box of lima bean cans.
“Harper!”
The voice snapped down the aisle like a whip.
Mr. Matthews, the shift supervisor, was already striding toward him in his crisp red vest, hands planted on his hips like he’d been born disapproving.
“Let’s pick up the pace a little, hmm?”
“Sorry, Mr. Matthews.”
“Not getting enough sleep during the day? Well, maybe it’s time to work on your personal organization. Whatever the case—when you clock in at Red Ridge Market, we expect that Red Ridge Market attitude.”
“Absolutely.” Zane was trying hard not to give any Red Red Market attitude.
And just like that, Matthews pivoted and marched off, on the hunt for someone else to scold.
Zane exhaled and turned back to the shelf, sliding cans into place one by one. He didn’t love stocking groceries all night. But Red Ridge Market offered benefits—even to part-timers—and he needed every ounce of support he could get right now.
Especially with his grandpa gone.
Especially when the only family he had left was his cousin.
And especially when he still had to finish senior year… and show up every afternoon at Intrepid Motors.
Sometimes, Zane wondered if exhaustion was just his new resting state.
In another blink, Zane was pulling the old pickup into the gravel driveway.
The house sat alone at the end of a dirt road, half-swallowed by pine trees and creeping kudzu. It was the kind of place an old man might’ve built with his own hands and then stubbornly refused to leave. Tin roof, warped porch steps, screen door with a permanent lean. Some repairs had been made—patches of fresh paint, a new windowpane here or there—but the house still groaned when the wind hit it wrong. It was holding on. Same as them.
Zane killed the engine and stepped out into the cool, pine-scented dark. Flynn’s bedroom light was still on.
Inside, the house creaked as Zane pushed the door open and stepped into the warm, dusty quiet. He poked his head into Flynn’s room.
Flynn sat at an old wooden desk, hunched over three open textbooks—trigonometry, political science, and biochemistry—bathed in the harsh yellow glow of a single desk lamp.
“What in the world are you doing up this late?”
“Early,” Flynn corrected, without looking up.
“I haven’t slept yet, so no—late,” Zane muttered.
“Sorry,” Flynn said, brushing hair from his face. “Just trying to finish some homework.”
“Yours or somebody else’s?”
“Mostly mine,” Flynn said, finally smiling.
Zane shook his head and turned toward his own room. “All right. You do you, cuz. I’m out.”
He barely made it to the mattress before he was asleep.
Less than three hours later, the beat-up pickup was on the move again with Zane driving himself and his sixteen-year-old cousin to school.
Jasper Creek High smelled like mop water, teenage ambition, and something the janitor swore wasn’t mold. The red brick walls hadn’t changed since the Roosevelt administration, and the off-white floor tiles had seen more shoe tread than the football field—except for the ones in the back wing, where the budget gave up completely and the carpet tiles curled like burnt toast.
Portable classrooms out back dotted between the pine trees handled the town’s modest student growth, but the only real upgrade in decades was the football stadium—which gleamed like a UFO had landed in the middle of a salvage yard. Last year, the Cougars went to state. Which meant the boosters got serious, and the field got lights.
Zane Harper, high school senior, had already disappeared into the crowd, likely cruising through his day like always—visible enough to be respected, distant enough to be left alone.
Flynn moved differently.
He wasn’t part of any clique, but he knew how to navigate most all of them. The drama kids asked him to troubleshoot their lighting cues. The football team slid him test reviews under the table. Teachers trusted him to pass out quizzes when they were late.
Flynn didn’t demand attention.
He just had gravity.
And while most of the student body was still shuffling to second period, one particularly unfortunate freshman had just made the classic mistake of looking a little too long at the wrong girl.
Skippy adjusted his glasses as Emma walked by—platinum hair, bare midriff, perfect posture, and a little more bounce in her step than the dress code allowed. He tried not to stare. He really did.
But his neck betrayed him.
And then it happened.
“HEY!”
Burt Schott’s voice could have stopped traffic—and probably had.
Six foot two, three hundred pounds, and built like a Chevy Silverado in cleats. He’d been shaving since preschool. Now, surrounded by his usual linebacker entourage, he was glaring down at Skippy like he’d just stolen something sacred.
“You lookin’ at my girl?”
Skippy’s words died somewhere between his throat and his brain.
“Uh… no, sir?”
Burt stepped in. Two other linemen flanked him.
Skippy was now officially in the circle of doom.
That’s when Flynn Harper slipped in—shoulders square, expression easy. Not tense. Not cocky. Just... confident.
He was average. Not ugly. Not Zane. Not built like Burt. Not built like Skippy. Just somewhere in the middle—except for the eyes. His eyes were present. Watching everything.
Flynn eased his way between the enforcers and Skippy like a diplomat navigating a border standoff.
“Burt,” he said softly, hands low and open, “you really wanna risk Friday night over this?”
Burt didn’t answer. Just kept breathing like a bull before a charge.
“Come on,” Flynn continued. “You’re the heart of this team. Riverside Station doesn’t stand a chance if you’re in the game. But if Coach hears you laid out some freshman in the hallway, how’s that going to go down?”
A lineman cut in: “Coach don’t gotta hear nothin’.”
Flynn turned his eyes to Burt.
“Yeah. But broken noses speak for themselves. Coach isn’t going to think somebody like me did a number on Skippy’s face.”
Burt’s jaw flexed.
“He was starin’.”
Flynn nodded as if he agreed. “Because you’ve got the girl, man. You are Burt Schott! Every guy at this school wishes he were you.”
One of the linebackers muttered, “Facts.”
Flynn leaned in—voice low, not public. Not performative.
“And you know what happens if you break this guy's face? Coach benches you. Without you, Riverside clobbers us. ”
Burt’s fists tightened. His breathing got heavier.
Flynn stepped closer—just enough. Just him and Burt now.
“Drop this… or I drop your trig grade. Then the rest of the season is you watching from the bench.”
Burt blinked.
Flynn didn’t flinch. Just held the gaze.
Flynn let the silence do the talking. Then Burt backed off a step.
“You better be glad your friend showed up, dweeb.” He turned to leave, and his crew peeled away with him.
Flynn waited until they were gone before turning to Skippy.
“You okay?”
“Yeah. Thanks, man. I thought I was gonna die.”
Flynn half-smiled, then gave Skippy a gentle pat on the shoulder.
“Just... stop looking at his girl.” Then, after a pause—so soft it might’ve been missed: “She’s not a trophy.”
Skippy blinked. His shoulders shrank a little. Flynn didn’t say it again. He didn’t need to.
The hallway had mostly cleared. Skippy had vanished.
Flynn leaned against the lockers, mentally reviewing trig formulas and trying not to think about how close that had been.
Then she walked up.
Jenna Liu.
Red Converse, jeans, a faded hoodie that probably had animal fur on it from her shelter shift. Dark black ponytail, freckles, soft eyes that squinted when she smiled.
She’d been in his classes since middle school—always two rows over, always scribbling something thoughtful. Science club secretary. Animal shelter volunteer. Lowkey hilarious when she wanted to be.
Flynn had liked her for, oh… ever.
“Hey, Flynn,” she said, brushing her hair behind her ear in a way that wasn’t helping his blood pressure.
He blinked and smiled. “Hey.”
“I, uh… saw that whole thing with Burt and Skippy. That was pretty impressive.”
He shrugged. “They just like to pal around. You know… loudly. With threats.”
She grinned. “You have a gift, you know that? People actually listen to you.”
Flynn gave a modest smile. “I just begged and groveled, and I think Burt took pity on me.”
She laughed. Then— a pause. Shift of her feet. Fingers twisting her ponytail.
Flynn’s internal alarm system lit up.
“I know this is probably a crazy question,” she said, not quite making eye contact. “And I’m sure girls ask you stuff like this all the time…”
No, they don’t, he thought. But please go on.
“I was just wondering… is your cousin seeing anyone right now?”
Cue internal crash.
Flynn kept the smile up, almost as a reflex at this point.
“No,” he said evenly. “Zane’s, uh… not really seeing anyone.”
Jenna’s eyes brightened. “Could you maybe… put in a good word for me?”
He nodded just once. “Sure.”
His stomach gave a quiet twist. One he didn’t show. He’d had practice. After years of unrequited crushes, one more wouldn’t kill him. Probably.
“You?” he said. “Jenna Liu? Science club, dog whisperer, human golden retriever? He’d be an idiot not to notice.”
She smiled wide. “Thanks for being my wingman.”
He nodded. “It’s kind of my brand.”
She walked off, ponytail bouncing, disappearing into the crowd like a thought he couldn’t finish.
Flynn let out a slow breath and said, mostly to himself:
“Always the wingman.”
Second period hadn’t even started, and Zane had already turned down two offers for tutoring, one invitation to the movies, and one very unsubtle hand on his bicep.
“You know,” said a girl in a peach hoodie, twirling her hair, “if you ever need, like… a study partner. Or someone to talk to. Or just… y’know…”
Zane smiled the way you smile at a puppy chewing the furniture
“Thanks. I’m good.”
He shut his locker, slung his backpack over one shoulder, and disappeared into the hallway like a man on a mission: just get through the day.
History class used to be his favorite, although this late in the year, even the teachers were checked out. Mr. Tidewell was both history teacher and football coach. Lately, he seemed more interested in reeling Zane back onto the field than in teaching about McCarthyism or the Red Scare.
Some classmates—mostly former teammates—were already goofing off before class even started. When Tidewell strolled in, dressed like he was about to lead warm-ups instead of a civics discussion, nobody flinched.
“Okay, class,” he said, clapping his hands. “Same as yesterday. Laptops out, hop on the school portal. Finish your papers and let’s try to keep things at a voice level one or lower.”
Zane raised his hand, then stood and walked up front.
“Hey, Coach. Just wondering if you had a chance to look at my paper?”
Tidewell blinked—like he’d forgotten he was a teacher for a second.
“The one on Castro’s rise to power and its effect on the Kennedy administration,” Zane added.
“Oh. Uh… nah, not yet. Been busy with Riverside coming up.”
“Right. Sure. Just wanted to get your feedback.”
Zane turned to go, but the coach motioned him back with a curling finger.
“Come on, Harper. You took us to state last year, and then you quit on the team. What’s that about?”
Zane met his eyes, not disrespectful, just unflinching. “A lot’s happened since then.”
The coach shifted, a flash of awareness crossing his face. “Yeah. I know. Sorry about your granddaddy. And I get it—it’s just you and your brother now.”
“Cousin.”
“Right.”
Tidewell leaned in, lowering his voice.
“Look, Thompson is great and all that,” the coach began, talking unconvincingly about his new starter. “But he can’t wrap his head around the playbook.”
The coach leaned in even tighter.
“He isn’t you. Zane… you could have a real future. Football, baseball—whatever you want. It’s your ticket outta here.”
Zane nodded. More acknowledgement than agreement.
He wanted to say something. Wanted to explain how he was holding together a household, finishing high school, working two jobs, and managing grief no scholarship offer could fix.
But he didn’t.
“I appreciate that, Coach.”
Then he returned to his desk, opened his laptop, and quietly got back to work.
Both cousins had been up since before sunrise, and by midafternoon, they were running on fumes. But this—working at Intrepid Motors—was arguably the best part of their day.
It felt wrong to think about it just as a job. It was so much more. It was their legacy, their safe place, their home.
The shop sat just off one of Jasper Creek’s main roads, tucked between a faded billboard and a line of tall pines. On this particular Tuesday, the lot out front was mostly empty—just an older Honda Civic that had just gotten a new transmission, and a shiny Corvette waiting on its owner.
Zane was flat on his back beneath an old truck, not much different than his own. Something was leaking—probably coolant—but tracing it was the real game. Frayed hose? Cracked reservoir?
This kind of job? He’d do it for free, which was lucky, because that’s roughly what the owners were paying him.
Flynn, meanwhile, was inside—behind the desk in the cramped, sun-warmed office. He wasn’t allowed near the actual repairs anymore. After the spark plug incident, that was made crystal clear.
So he handled the paperwork. Invoices. Calls. Scheduling.
Or he would have, if there had been any work to schedule.
Late spring usually brought busted radiators and pre-road-trip oil changes. But this year? The lot was mostly empty. And Flynn, sitting in a squeaky swivel chair, was out of things to alphabetize.
He spun lazily in his seat, eyes drifting to the large photo on the wall—faded and yellowed from the sun pouring through the office windows.
Three men, late twenties or early thirties, arms locked in a side-hug, standing proudly in front of the newly opened shop: Intrepid Motors.
These were the Harper Brothers.
But rather than the obvious, they had named the shop Intrepid Motors. Growing up, their dad always said they were “intrepid young men.” The word stuck. The name stuck. The dream stuck.
Flynn stared at the photo. And memory took over.
He could see it like a movie in his mind.
Rain drumming on the tin roof, pine needles stuck to the windshield wipers, the scent of motor oil mixing with mountain air.
He was little, maybe five. Playing with toy trucks in a dry corner of the shop. His mom at the desk, fingers flying across a keyboard. Aunt Rachel chasing Zane away from Uncle Phil’s toolbox. Cars filled the lot. Orders stacked sky-high.
Uncle Phil had his electric-blue truck hoisted in the air. Uncle Roger was elbows-deep in the engine of a neon-green sports car.
And Dad—his dad—was under the hood of some dusty old hatchback.
They were working late. Laughing louder than the sounds of all the power tools. Grandpa always said they were probably teasing Roger about his latest girlfriend—Ashlee with two E’s. Roger, the youngest, was always the easy target.
Flynn couldn’t remember the jokes.
Just the feeling.
Warm light. Loud voices. Everything humming with life.
That was eleven years ago. It might as well have been another planet.
After the accident, the shop—like everything else—became just another casualty. Their grandfather didn’t have the technical know-how to keep it running. And after what happened, he didn’t have the heart either.
Foreclosure loomed. But a mechanic from the city looking to start his own business—a man who had worked his way up from a garage worker to vice president of a major company—stepped in and took it over. Out of respect for the legacy, he kept the name. Intrepid Motors stayed open for business.
And when Zane and Flynn got old enough, they were offered part-time jobs. Not because it made financial sense—but because it should’ve been theirs.
It was a memory. A monument. And now it was the last piece of family they had left.
Like a lot of garages, Intrepid Motors had a key drop box near the entrance for after-hours service—just a metal slot on a rusted box stuck on a pole beside the lot’s edge.
From the office, Flynn spotted an older man depositing something into the box. Thin, weathered. He slipped a small yellow envelope into the slot and paused, his hand lingering like he’d just sealed something important.
Weird. Mr. Carson hadn’t mentioned any new drop-offs. And besides, they were still open—why use the box?
Flynn stood from his chair and stepped toward the glass office door, ready to call out, “Can I help you, sir?”
That’s when the man looked up—and locked eyes with Flynn.
Just for a second. But something connected them.
Flynn’s breath caught. He didn’t know this man. And yet… he didn’t feel like a stranger. It was like he recognized him on some deeper level, like someone he’d known forever.
The man’s smile was soft. Kind. Worn out. Like it came from a long way off. He looked a little like Grandpa, but at the same time clearly a different person.
Maybe that was just grief playing tricks.
“Hey Flynn,” came a shout from the garage bay. “Toss me a rag?”
That was Zane. Face dripping with coolant. Grinning like an idiot.
Flynn turned, grabbed a towel off the counter, and when he looked back—
The old man was gone.
No car. No footsteps.
Flynn had almost forgotten the old man—until Mr. Carson’s car pulled into the lot.
The shop owner stepped out slowly, his shoulders hunched like he was carrying something heavier than tools. Carson was a good man—steady, fair—but today he looked gutted.
Flynn crossed the gravel to meet him.
“Hey, Mr. Carson.”
“Flynn.” The man nodded but didn’t smile. His voice was dry.
“You okay, sir?” Flynn asked, picking up on the tension right away.
No answer. Carson just stared at the office door like it might open by itself.
“Anything happen this afternoon while I was gone, kid?”
“Someone dropped something in the key box—an older guy. Came up from the sidewalk. No car.”
That got Carson’s attention.
“He didn’t leave a name?”
“No, sir. I was going to go out and talk to him, but then Zane needed something, and by the time I looked back, he was gone.”
Carson frowned. “I’m not expecting anyone. And nobody should use the drop box during open hours.”
“Maybe it’s a note or something,” Flynn offered. “Want me to go check?”
Carson shook his head. “I’ll get it.”
He took a breath, then paused.
“Actually… can you get Zane and meet me in the office?”
Flynn squinted. “Are we in trouble?”
Carson’s mouth flickered into a whisper of a smile. “Just meet me in there, boys.”
The office was quiet except for the hum of the overhead lights and the ticking wall clock. Zane sat, arms crossed, pretending to be relaxed—but his foot tapped rhythmically under the desk. On the other hand, Flynn was bouncing his leg in his chair like he was trying to generate electricity.
Zane glanced over. “Could you just calm down?”
Flynn shot him a look. “That’s kind of hard to do, considering I’m ninety percent sure we’re about to get the ‘it’s not you, it’s me’ speech.”
“You’re about to wear a hole in the floor. Just cool it.”
The glass door creaked open. Mr. Carson stepped in, holding a small yellow envelope: hand-sized, faded, unassuming.
He looked at it, then at them. “Whatever your mystery man dropped off... I think it’s for you. Not me.”
He handed it to Flynn.
The envelope had no stamp, no return address. Just three printed words on the front in clean, bold letters:
THE COUSINS INTREPID
Flynn stared at it; it was heavier than it looked. But before he could open it, Mr. Carson let out a long sigh and sank into his chair behind the desk.
“There’s no easy way to say this…”
Zane didn’t even look up. “Flynn break another Chevy?”
That drew a faint chuckle. “Zane, I’ve made it a personal policy to keep Flynn away from anything with an engine.”
Flynn forced a sheepish smile, but it vanished fast.
Carson hesitated again. Then: “Boys, I had to sell.”
The words hit like a dropped wrench.
“I’m sorry,” he went on. “I didn’t have a choice.”
Flynn’s breath caught—but at least now he knew what they were dealing with. “We haven’t had many customers lately.”
Carson nodded, but his expression darkened. “It gets worse. I tried to find a real buyer—someone who’d keep the shop running. But there was no interest. The chain down the highway took most of the work. We just couldn’t keep up.”
Zane’s brow furrowed. He didn’t move, but his shoulders tensed.
Carson looked down. “The buyer’s a developer. They’re planning to tear it all down… turn it into a frozen yogurt place.”
Flynn blinked. “Oh. That’s… yeah. Who doesn’t like froyo?” The words were hollow, an automatic attempt to lighten the air. It didn’t work.
Zane’s fist hit the desk—not loud, but sharp and sudden.
He didn’t explode. He didn’t yell. He pressed his hand against his face, dragging it down like he was trying to wipe the emotion off. When he spoke, his voice was tight with restraint.
“My dad… Flynn’s dad… their brother… the three of them didn’t buy this place.”
Carson looked down, eyes heavy.
“They built it,” Zane said. “Started with nothing but an empty gravel lot. Worked nights. Burned themselves out trying to make something that lasted.”
His voice cracked just slightly.
“This place… it was all we had left of them.”
He turned toward the corner of the office—toward nothing in particular. His final words came quiet, bitter, stunned.
“Frozen yogurt.”
Flynn still hadn’t looked up. He just sat forward, hands clasped together, eyes on the floor.
“It’s not Mr. Carson’s fault,” he said.
Carson looked between them, remorse etched into every line of his face. “If you want someone to blame, blame me. I blame myself. I should’ve found a way to keep it going.”
Flynn shook his head. “Mr. Carson, you’ve looked out for us since day one. You didn’t have to. You did anyway. There was nothing else you could’ve done.”
Zane finally looked up—right at Carson. “I’d never blame you.”
A silence settled between them.
Then Flynn asked, “Where will you go?”
Carson leaned back, exhaling like he’d been holding his breath for weeks. “Probably back to Nashville. Back to the corporate world. It’s a shame. I really thought this would work.”
Zane nodded, voice low, resigned. “Life.”
Both boys rose quietly and returned to work, the news sitting heavy in their minds. Flynn slipped the envelope into his pocket, almost as an afterthought—unaware of the doors that key would unlock. For him. For both of them.
Chapter Two
Zane sat in his grandmother’s old wooden chair just outside the screen door, one leg bent, elbow resting on the armrest like a ship captain bracing for a storm. The bottle of root beer sweated in his hand. Above him, the porch light buzzed like it was trying to die quietly.
Flynn sat on the steps below, elbows on knees, flicking a pebble back and forth between his fingers like a worry stone.
“Well,” Zane said. “That was a day, wasn’t it?”
Flynn exhaled. “Most days usually are.”
They sat in the thick hush of Appalachian night. Somewhere deep in the woods, a frog croaked half-heartedly. The air smelled of pine bark and mildew and the kind of rain that hadn’t fallen yet.
“I’m just as mad as you are,” Flynn said after a moment. “But being mad doesn’t change anything.”
Zane didn’t answer right away. He’d already buried the loss—deep and fast.
“It’s just a job,” he said, taking a swig of root beer.
Flynn knew that tone. Knew when to drop something.
“Jenna Liu asked me if you were seeing anyone.”
“She’s a junior. Seems more your type anyway.”
“Well, turns out I’m just the guy you ask about someone else,” Flynn muttered. The pebble clicked softly between his fingers.
Zane rolled his eyes. “You just need to get your head on straight with these girls.”
“Thanks,” Flynn said flatly. It was easy for Zane to say—girls noticed him. Flynn had to work just to exist in the same room.
A familiar old blue sedan turned onto the long gravel driveway. Without a word, Flynn stood and vanished into the house, likely headed to the fridge for an orange soda and a little deniability for their favorite case worker.
The car crunched to a stop, and out stepped Mrs. Redfern. Mid-fifties, heavy-set, and unmistakably no-nonsense. This wasn’t her first visit to the Harper house—not by a long shot.
“It’s always a Tuesday, Mrs. Redfern,” Zane said, still rocking gently in his chair. “You never drop by any other night.”
“Your place is on the way home from my bowling league,” she replied, flat as ever.
Zane motioned toward the screen door. “You want to come inside?”
She raised an eyebrow. “Mind if I stay out here?”
Zane shrugged. “Fine by me. If you don’t see him he isn’t here right?”
He rose from his seat and came down the steps to meet her.
“I’m almost eighteen,” he said quietly. “Why is this such a problem?”
“Oh, it’s not a problem for me,” she said, tone light, before switching to her mom-voice. “But Flynn’s still eighteen months shy of legal, and that makes people twitchy.”
“Can’t we just let it slide?”
“Zane.”
That was all she had to say. He knew what came next.
“I’ve tried to keep this under the radar since your grandpa passed,” she continued. “Lord knows the two of you are more grown-up than half the adults I deal with.”
He didn’t argue. He just stood there, quiet.
“How many jobs are you working right now, baby?”
The bags under his eyes answered before he did.
“One less than I started with this morning.”
She exhaled slowly. “The shop?”
Zane nodded, just barely.
“I knew Bob Carson was struggling. I’m surprised he found a buyer that fast.”
“Not a buyer for the shop. Just the land. They’re putting in a frozen yogurt place.”
Mrs. Redfern stepped forward and pulled him into a hug. This wasn’t standard procedure for social workers in Jasper Creek, but Mrs. Redfern had never cared much for protocol.
“I know how you felt about that place.”
Zane wasn’t the touchy-feely type, but he didn’t pull away. Not right away. Not tonight.
“I always figured one day I’d buy it back,” he said, voice low. “Make it ours again.”
He turned his head toward the trees, blinking at the dark.
She let him go gently. “I’m going to keep doing what I can to keep this case quiet, but sooner or later someone upstairs is gonna notice all these red flags.”
Zane gave a small nod.
“In the meantime,” she said, stepping off the porch, “I’ll look into our options.”
“Thanks,” he said, lifting a hand in a quiet wave.
Mrs. Redfern paused by the car door. “Tell Flynn Miss Delores said hello—and not to be a stranger–that is, if you see him around of course.” She added a knowing wink.
Then she was gone, taillights flickering into the night, her tires flinging gravel as the car disappeared down the drive.
Zane stepped back into the house to find Flynn standing in the kitchen, holding a package of cigarettes like it had personally offended him.
“These were in the fridge,” Flynn said, eyebrows pinched. “In a margarine box. Who does that?”
Zane sighed and yanked the pack out of his hand, walking it straight to the trash.
“If Grandpa had put half as much effort into the shop as he did hiding cigarettes, maybe he wouldn’t have had to sell it.”
“It’s like... how many hiding places did he have?” Flynn muttered.
“And it’s not like we didn’t know he was still smoking. The entire house reeked of old Marlboros.”
They walked back into the living room and sank into the couch—Zane with his half-finished root beer, Flynn cracking open his orange soda. Zane grabbed the remote and flicked through channels. Tuesdays were always a dead zone. Football season felt like a lifetime away. Plus the Volunteers didn’t play on Tuesdays anyways.
“So,” Flynn said, “how was Mrs. Redfern?”
“She wants to put you in foster care even more than I do,” Zane replied without looking up.
“You’d miss me too much.”
“I’d cry myself to sleep every night,” Zane deadpanned. “Maybe Jenna Liu could come over and comfort me through my grief.”
Flynn paused. He couldn’t tell if Zane was joking.
“So... you’re gonna ask her out?”
Zane turned and stared at him like he’d grown a second head.
“Seriously? I’m not gonna ask her out when you’re clearly crushing on her.”
“It’s fine,” Flynn muttered. “If you want to go out with her, I don’t mind.”
Zane shook his head. “Flynn. I’m not into Jenna. She’s cool. What she does with puppies is adorable. But I don’t just chase every girl that smiles at me.”
“I’m not trying to start anything. I’m just saying—I won’t stand in your way.”
“Well, that’s very noble of you,” Zane replied with a smirk. “But if you like her, maybe actually do something about it?”
“I was going to. Then she told me she was into you. So what was I supposed to do? ‘Hey Jenna, sorry Harper #1 didn’t work out, but how about Harper #2?’”
“See? That right there—that’s why girls don’t go for you.”
“What?”
Zane turned toward him, full-on now. “This whole 'I’m second best, I’m Mr. Nice Guy, I’m option number two' routine. Dude, I get it. Living in the shadow of my obvious brilliance? Not easy.”
He grinned—just enough to soften the blow.
“But seriously, man. That stuff? Girls can smell it. Desperation. Insecurity. That’s your Achilles’ heel.”
Flynn didn’t respond. Just looked down at his soda can like it had all the answers.
Zane let the silence hang for a beat before standing up.
“I’m going for a run.”
“After a day like today?”
Zane grabbed the screen door. “Especially after a day like today.”
Flynn went back to staring blankly at the TV, flipping through channels.
He shifted slightly, realizing he wasn’t sitting all that comfortably. That’s when he felt it—something in his pocket.
Reaching into his left side, he pulled out the small yellow envelope. The one the mysterious man had slipped into the key box.
THE COUSINS INTREPID.
The name stirred something. The Intrepid Brothers had been one of the names his dad and uncles tossed around before settling on Intrepid Motors. Was this somehow connected?
Flynn hadn’t given it much thought earlier—too distracted by everything else—but now, with Zane out on his run and the night pressing in quiet, he was curious.
Zane won’t mind if I take a peek.
Some part of his imagination hoped for a miracle: a giant check to wipe out the funeral debt. A key to a new car, maybe. Something he could finally drive now that he had his license.
Instead, the envelope held two strange earbud-like devices… and a scrap of paper with an address:
1981 County Road 42
Jasper Creek, Tennessee
Flynn picked up the devices, turning them over in his hands. Not a matching pair, he realized—they were both shaped for the left ear. Odd.
And unlike normal earbuds, these weren’t plastic. They were cool to the touch—metallic, a little heavier than expected. No logo. No markings. Nothing.
Definitely weird.
He slipped one into his ear.
Nothing happened.
He grabbed his phone and checked the Bluetooth. No new devices. No pop-up windows. Nothing to pair.
Maybe they’re just not compatible. His phone was a few generations old. It wouldn’t be the first time something didn’t work with it.
He set the earbuds down and turned his attention to the address. Pulling up his maps app, he typed it in.
It pointed to a dead-end stretch of county road out in the middle of nowhere. He switched to satellite view. That was better.
All he could see was a clearing in the trees… and a single wooden shack.
Flynn stared at the screen.
This was getting stranger by the second.
The next morning, they were rumbling down the mountain road in the old truck. Wednesday was the one day Zane was usually halfway rested, since he didn’t work at the store Tuesday night.
“One of these days I should get to drive this thing,” Flynn muttered, watching the trees blur past his window.
He wasn’t a complainer by nature. But around Zane, the filters came off.
“When you get your own truck, you can drive it,” Zane replied without looking over.
“This isn’t even yours. It was Grandpa’s.”
“Yeah, and he left it to me.”
“I think he left it to us.”
Zane chuckled as he eased the wheel left through the winding road. The sky hung low and overcast, but at least it kept the heat down.
“The only reason you want the truck is so you can sneak off to that shack in the middle of nowhere.”
Flynn sat up straighter. “C’mon, man. A mysterious stranger leaves us an envelope in a key box with some address scrawled on a piece of paper, and you’re not even a little curious?”
Zane shot him a look. “The guy’s totally a predator, Flynn. You’ve gotta stop being so naive.”
“What about the earphones?”
“Predator with a weird earbud thing. I don’t know.”
Flynn rolled his eyes and slumped back in his seat. The truck hummed along, just a few ticks over the speed limit.
“I still think we should check it out.”
“And I think the last thing we need is another flaming pile of nonsense in our life right now.”
“There you go. Straight to the negative.”
Zane scoffed. “Flynn, every single unexpected event that has shown up in our lives over the past five years has been some kind of bad news. I don’t want it to be, but that’s just reality.”
“There’s realism,” Flynn said calmly, “and then there’s cynicism.”
“I’m not a cynic. I just—” Zane exhaled. “I had a really long day yesterday, and I don’t feel like chasing shadows.”
“So I’ll go check it out myself.”
Zane’s head snapped toward him. “You? You’re gonna hike out to some rickety shack in the woods alone, to investigate a mystery dropped off by a stranger? Yeah, over my dead body.”
“I can handle myself.” Flynn said.
Zane turned, eyes narrowing. “It has nothing to do with whether you can do it or not. It's just a bad idea, period. Even I wouldn’t do that.”
Flynn shot back. “It’s exactly the kind of thing you would do.”
Zane opened his mouth to argue… then hesitated.
“Yeah,” he admitted after a second. “I probably would.”
The rest of the drive to school was pretty quiet after that.
At least it was a B Day—Flynn’s favorite lineup. He had his dual credit classes in the morning, which usually gave him something solid to focus on. And today, focus was exactly what he needed.
He wasn’t a master of compartmentalization like Zane. But he tried. Tried to shove the envelope, the earbuds, the frozen-yogurt betrayal of his family’s legacy, all into some mental junk drawer he could shut for a few hours.
It worked… barely.
First period was debate, normally Flynn’s time to shine. The topic this week: the role of government in the affairs of private citizens. In Jasper Creek, even high schoolers had strong opinions on that topic. Flynn had volunteered, of course, to argue the unpopular side: that bigger government could actually do more good.
He liked the challenge. Usually.
But today, he also had the misfortune of going first. That wasn’t his strength. Flynn thrived in the back-and-forth, the counterpunch—not in setting the stage. Between the early slot and his scrambled headspace, his opening argument came out thin and uninspired.
It was hard to recover from there.
By second period—literature—he was completely adrift. His mind kept circling back to the envelope. The address. The strange old man. And what it all meant.
He didn’t even notice the teacher calling on him until his name cut through the fog.
“Mr. Harper?”
Flynn blinked. “Sorry, what was the question again?”
“The Iliad. Initial thoughts?”
Flynn straightened in his seat. He had done the reading, but his thoughts were all over the place. Still, muscle memory kicked in.
“Right. Homer. Um… I thought it was interesting that even though it’s an ancient text, it still resonates today—with its themes of vengeance and legacy.”
Even when Flynn was off his game, he could still sound like he wasn’t.
“I didn’t like it at all!” another student blurted out. “It was cool at the beginning with all the war and battle stuff, but then it just slows to a stop and it’s all talking. I want some action here!”
The teacher raised a hand to respond “Well, Mr. Porter, unlike your typical summer blockbuster, a great work of literature takes time…”
“Like who cares about the backstory? Let’s see Zeus blow someone up!”
Flynn let the back-and-forth fade into background noise.
His eyes drifted to the window. Beyond the glass, the sky was still overcast. Still gray. Like the whole world was waiting for something.
By third period government, Flynn’s brain was even further off track. So much for compartmentalizing.
Today’s topic—the idea that laws, not emotions or public sentiment, form the foundation of a functioning society—was normally what lit a spark in him. It was the kind of principle he actually believed in. One he’d argued for before. One he’d probably argue for again.
But not today.
Today, even the exciting world of legal theory and its execution couldn’t shake Flynn’s chaotic internal world.
After lunch, the momentum died completely. Just the usual afternoon lineup—standard high school classes where both the students and the teachers had mentally checked out. Time slowed to a crawl.
Zane, on the other hand, was naturally better at keeping things in their boxes—he had to be. But even he was struggling today.
This semester, he hadn’t re-enrolled in dual credit courses. Just like he’d stepped away from football. There was only so much bandwidth.
Still, he used his free period to help Roger Thompson, the new quarterback, get up to speed on the playbook. Zane might not be on the team anymore, but he was still a team player.
PE was his other refuge. Just a chance to run, to let the stress and noise of the day melt away for a while. It didn't hurt that the girls' track team usually practiced at the same time.
But much like Flynn, after lunch he found himself in a haze, half-listening, half-scribbling down missed assignments while most of the class had mentally checked out.
One more week until graduation.
Of course, the plan had been to work full time at the shop.
Oh well.
Maybe the grocery store needed help on the day shift even though that wasn’t what he had in mind for his future. And then, weirdly, his thoughts drifted to the envelope.
The Cousins Intrepid?
Who even says that?
Why not just “The Harper Boys” or “Zane and Flynn”?
He didn’t want to admit it, but yeah, the whole thing was strange. Not just the earbuds. Not just the timing. All of it.
It’s not that he didn’t love a good mystery. He really did.
But lately, mysteries didn’t lead to treasure maps or hidden secrets. They usually led to things like IRS letters saying you owed more in back taxes than you thought. Or doctors with X-rays and looks that said more than they were willing to say. Or—worst of all—some investigator showing up with news they’d finally found the wreckage of the plane crash that had changed everything.
Not that anyone ever had.
Not yet.
But Zane had learned the hard way—some doors were better left closed.
The final bell had rung, and the Cousins Intrepid—as at least one person referred to them—were back in the truck, heading down the winding road through the woods toward home.
Zane tapped his fingers on the steering wheel in rhythm to the Coltrane track playing softly through the truck’s worn-out speakers, the sax curling through the cabin like smoke.
Flynn reached toward the phone to skip the track.
Zane swatted his hand away without taking his eyes off the road. “Nope! Driver’s choice.”
“Another reason I should get to drive.”
“I don’t understand what your problem is with jazz.”
Flynn let out a dry laugh. “What are you talking about? I love jazz. I just don’t need to listen to it every day.”
“I thought all smart kids liked jazz and classical music and stuff.”
“Oh? Did you just call me smart?” Flynn asked, eyebrow raised.
“No, I just called myself smart. I’m the jazz guy.” Zane grinned, eyes still on the road.
“You are such a walking contradiction,” Flynn said, shaking his head.
“Last year during the championship, I had a Miles Davis album that carried me through the entire third quarter. I don’t know, man—just something about the rhythm. It puts me in the zone.”
“And no one ever gave you a hard time for blasting jazz while throwing passes?”
Zane glanced at him with a smirk. “Oh, they were merciless… until the touchdowns started rolling in.”
Flynn chuckled, but his eyes drifted to the window. Something felt off. This wasn’t the road home.
They weren’t heading toward the house. They were skirting the edge of town, if you could even call Jasper Creek a town.
Zane made a sudden right off the main road and pulled into the cracked asphalt lot of a long-abandoned dollar store, weeds breaking through the pavement.
Flynn looked around, brow furrowing. “Uh, is this the part where you murder me?”
Zane shot him a wicked grin. Without a word, he reached over, cranked up the Coltrane to max volume, spun the wheel all the way to the right, and slammed the gas pedal.
The rear tires shrieked. The truck lurched, fishtailed, and then began spinning—full-force donuts—kicking up a wild cyclone of dust and gravel. Zane leaned his head out the window, howling like he was on the world’s most unhinged roller coaster.
Flynn let out a startled yell and grabbed the ceiling handle with both hands, eyes wide as dinner plates. The tuna sandwich from lunch threatened to make a return appearance.
Round and round they spun, the truck coughing black exhaust that mingled with years of undisturbed dust, turning the parking lot into a swirling storm cloud.
Flynn’s stomach lurched—but once the nausea passed, something unexpected bubbled up. He started to laugh. Actually, laugh. A surprised grin spread across his face.
Zane glanced over, wild-eyed, grinning.
Flynn lifted his voice: “Woo-hoo!”
Zane shook his head—like, really, that’s the best you got?—and motioned for him to try again.
Flynn took a breath and let it out: “WOOO-HOOOO!” Louder. Real.
The two of them were now yelling in sync, lungs wide open, the world outside a blur of color and chaos, but in here—just the two of them, spinning away the weight of everything.
When Zane finally eased off the gas, the truck coasted to a stop in a haze of laughter, heat, and smoke.
Flynn leaned back, breathless and blinking. “Okay… what made you think to do that?”
Zane let out a short laugh. “I don’t know. Just one of those Wednesdays where you need to do donuts at a dollar store.”
They sat for a moment, catching their breath as the dust cloud began to settle back to earth.
Zane reached over casually and handed Flynn his phone. “Punch in the address.”
Flynn blinked. “What?”
“The murder shack in the woods. Punch it in.”
“What? You’re serious?” Flynn’s head snapped back, thrown by the sudden pivot.
“Yeah,” Zane said, voice calm but a little begrudging.
“You really want to go check this thing out? For real?”
“Yes.” He bobbed his head, rhythmic and firm.
“And you’ll let me drive?”
Zane kept bobbing his head, looking like he was about to say yes.
“Not on your life,” he said, a grin spreading.
The cloudy skies had finally parted, sunlight streaking through the treetops as the boys wound their way toward the county line on a road that had long since stopped pretending to be maintained. When Flynn first plugged in the address, his phone hesitated—like it didn’t want to admit the place even existed—before finally locking onto the location.
They were a good fifteen, maybe twenty minutes from the nearest gas station. A solid half-hour from Jasper Creek.
The gravel thinned out until it gave way to a rugged path, and then to full-on off-roading. The deep red clay of southeastern Tennessee clung to the wheels as they bounced along, pine branches scraping against the truck's sides.
Then, there it was.
Just like Flynn had seen in the satellite image: a sagging wooden shack, barely upright, as if it were holding its breath. It was weather-beaten, haggard, leaning slightly to one side, tucked into a clearing framed by tall, whispering pines.
Zane pulled the truck onto the edge of the lot and killed the engine. The sudden silence settled like fog.
They sat for a long moment, neither one reaching for their door.
Flynn stared out the windshield. No sign of life—just a squirrel darting across the dirt and a group of bright red cardinals flitting between the dark green branches overhead. Zane squinted at the shack. “Well… I’m not any smarter yet.”
“Maybe it’s a surprise party,” Flynn said, not sounding convinced even to himself.
Zane sighed like a man preparing to do something regrettable. He unbuckled his seatbelt and opened the door. “Hey! Anybody here?” he shouted, loud enough to send the cardinals scattering.
“What’d you do that for?” Flynn hissed.
“If someone’s here, better that they make the first move.”
“Oh yeah. Because an axe murderer loves the direct approach.”
“No one ever tries the direct approach with axe murderers,” Zane replied as he circled in front of the truck. “People always do the whole cower and scream thing. I think if you came at one head-on, you’d freak him out.”
He started toward the shack with a cautious gait, Flynn trailing a few paces behind.
“And besides,” Zane added over his shoulder, “what happened to your boundless optimism? I thought this was all a good idea.”
“Well, it’s hard to think happy thoughts once you're actually at the murder shack,” Flynn muttered.
Almost on cue, the sky darkened again. The clouds from earlier drifted back overhead, casting a dull gray light over the clearing.
As they approached the shack, a subtle scent filled the air—cedarwood, dry and sharp, rising from the aged boards of the structure. Flynn caught it and thought, Well, if we die here, at least it smells nice.
Zane stepped onto the creaking porch and rapped his knuckles on the door. The hollow knock echoed back, like there was nothing inside.
Flynn leaned in, tilting his head to listen.
“You hear that?” he whispered. “Like an AC condenser or something. Kind of a mechanical hum.”
“Maybe we won free central cooling for a year,” Zane quipped.
Flynn pressed his ear a little closer. There was something. A low electrical hum, maybe a faint rhythmic beeping. Not loud. But definitely not natural.
“This door opens toward us,” Zane said, studying the frame. “So…you may not want your head so close.”
“If someone is in there, they’re being extremely quiet,” Flynn added.
They paused again. Zane looked over.
“You still got the earphone things?”
“Yeah. Why?”
“No reason. I’m just thinking they’ll be part of the puzzle at some point.”
Flynn hesitated. “Should we… go inside?”
“There’s no lock. So it’s not breaking and entering.”
“I wasn’t asking for legal counsel,” Flynn deadpanned.
Zane turned and looked around the lot. No cars. No houses. Not even a fence post in sight.
“Well… we did come all this way. What do we have to lose?”
“If this goes south, I’m really sorry for dragging you out here,” Flynn whispered.
“If this goes south, at least I’ve got a decent excuse for missing my shift tonight.” Zane smirked.
They shared a final glance.
“It’s your mysterious envelope,” Zane said, nodding toward the shack. “You do the honors.”
Flynn nodded once, stepped forward, and reached for the rusted metal handle. It was cold and a little loose. With a creak and a groan, he pulled.
The door swung open with a long squeal.
The windowless shack was nearly pitch black—hot, close, and thick with silence. Flynn was just about to step forward, maybe offer a meek “Hello? Anyone at home?” when a single light overhead flickered slowly, painfully, to life.
It startled him at first—he instinctively assumed someone had flipped a switch—but no. There was no one in the shack. Nowhere to hide. The bulb must have been motion-activated or triggered by the door.
It flickered on and off in ragged pulses, like an engine sputtering to life.
After several long seconds, the bulb steadied just enough to illuminate the room. And even then, nothing made sense.
The inside of the shack was exactly what you’d expect based on the outside: a twelve-by-twelve box with cedar plank walls and a sagging tin roof. The shack rested on uneven piers, and the aging wood floor creaked underfoot with every step. An exposed aluminum wire hung from the ceiling, feeding power—somehow—to a single hanging light bulb that looked like it had violated at least five fire codes.
But once Flynn’s eyes adjusted, and he stepped inside, the illusion of normalcy evaporated.
Zane followed him over the threshold, eyebrows raised.
In the middle of the shack, stood a white metallic platform—raised two feet off the ground and accessible by a narrow step at the front. It looked nothing like the structure around it. No wood, no rust, no nails. This had been designed, manufactured. It looked like something from a clean room in a world-class tech lab. Sleek. Purposeful.
Its shape was odd—neither round nor square. At first glance, Flynn couldn’t tell if it was a hexagon or an octagon. On closer inspection… seven sides. He was sure of it.
The top was a white metal grating, cut with surgical precision. Rising from the rear of the platform, a single curved rod supported a panel—like a built-in tablet or control station—at waist height.
A soft mechanical hum filled the room. The sound was steady but alive. The beeping Flynn had heard outside was clearly coming from this thing.
He circled the platform slowly, eyes scanning for a logo. A cable. A hint of where it came from. Was it plugged in? Powered by something underneath?
Suddenly, the room was bathed with light. A soft blue light shone upward through the grating beneath the platform, pulsing slowly—bright, then dim. Bright, then dim.
Flynn blinked. The change had apparently been triggered by Zane who was now standing on top of the platform, staring down.
“Uh… maybe that’s not a great idea,” Flynn offered, eyes narrowing.
Zane didn’t move. “Yeah… maybe not,” he echoed—though clearly, he wasn’t stepping off either.
The blue light quickly grew stronger, rhythmically throbbing from beneath Zane’s feet. Then the control panel lit up. Icons flashed. Symbols. Lines of text… but nothing he could read or even identify. The script was completely foreign—curved, elegant, totally unrecognizable.
Then the panel spoke.
A calm, friendly female voice emanated from the device. But like the writing, the language was incomprehensible.
“What did you do?” Flynn snapped, darting up onto the platform to get a better look.
“I didn’t touch a thing!” Zane shot back. “It just happened automatically!”
The humming noise deepened. The pitch climbed. Steam hissed up from beneath the grating—thin at first, then growing. A sharp electronic tone rang out, steady and rhythmic—like a countdown.
Flynn’s eyes widened. “We really need to get off this thing.”
But neither of them moved.
The voice kept speaking in the same calm, upbeat cadence. More lights blinked across the panel. The steam grew thicker, swirling around their ankles. The high-pitched whine climbed to a piercing peak.
And then—white flash.
Blinding. Absolute.
It sounded like pressure being released from the center of the earth.
Then—silence.
The light faded.
The steam cleared.
The hum died out.
And the shack was exactly as it had been five minutes earlier—dim, dusty, and devoid of life.
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