The late August sun was a warm blanket on my skin, thick with the smell of freshly cut grass and a hint of distant lake breeze. My phone buzzed on the faded picnic table cloth beside my sketchbook, but I ignored it. Senior year was officially just a week away, and I was soaking up every last drop of summer freedom before the college application nightmare truly began.
I leaned back on the splintery bench, my sketchbook propped against a glass of melting lemonade. On the page, a tangle of wires and gears started to resolve into a fantastical flying machine, something cobbled together from antique clock parts and forgotten radio components. Most kids my age were probably scrolling through TikTok, perfecting their selfie angles, or stressing about who they'd sit with at lunch. Not me. Give me a dusty old transistor radio and a soldering iron, and I was happier than a clam. And if that radio happened to pick up a faint, unidentifiable signal from beyond the stars? Even better.
"Zoe! You're going to melt out there!" My mom, Clara, called from the back porch. Her voice was like warm honey, always calm, always comforting. A thin trail of yarn, the latest victim of her crocheting obsession, snaked from the living room window to her hand as she sat on the porch swing, click-clacking away. She was the calm to my dad's storm, the quiet hum that kept our house from rattling apart. My mom was my anchor, my confidante, the one person who truly got my weird brain without needing a logical explanation for it.
"I'm fine, Mom! Just soaking up the last rays before they lock me in the library for four years!" I yelled back, knowing she'd just smile.
The "library" was a bit of an exaggeration, but not by much. My senior year was set to be a gauntlet of AP classes, SAT prep, and essays, all geared towards getting into a good college. Not that I knew what I wanted to do with any degree. My dream wasn't to climb a corporate ladder; it was to build a life where I could create, paint, write, maybe grow a ridiculously overgrown garden, and keep a few chickens. A life where money was an afterthought, not the driving force. Dad, bless his practical, law-abiding heart, just didn't get it.
Speaking of Dad, the familiar low rumble of his patrol car pulled into the driveway, punctual as always. David, my father, the Sheriff of our little town, was a man of routine. Six feet two inches of solid muscle and dark hair, he embodied authority and protection. He was a good man, fiercely dedicated, but his love for me often translated into a need for control, a kind of paternal overprotectiveness that could sometimes feel stifling.
He walked past the porch, giving Mom a quick kiss on the forehead before heading towards me. His gaze, usually sharp and assessing, softened when he looked at me, though a familiar furrow appeared between his brows.
"Still out here baking yourself, Peanut?" he asked, using his old nickname for me. He ran a hand over my butt-length, pin-straight light brown hair, his touch careful. Even with my pale skin, I probably looked a little pink.
"Just enjoying the peace, Dad," I replied, closing my sketchbook instinctively. I loved him, truly, but his presence often felt like an invisible spotlight, searching for anything out of place.
He nodded, glancing over at the empty house next door. It had been empty for months, a gaping hole in the otherwise neat suburban landscape. "Heard the new neighbors are moving in today," he commented, his tone casual, but his eyes lingering on the quiet house. "Got a family, I hear. Good to have some new blood around."
I looked over too, a flicker of curiosity stirring. New people. Maybe someone interesting. Little did I know, "new blood" was about to take on a whole new meaning. Little did I know, that quiet house held the very proof of the universe's vast, strange secrets I'd only ever dreamed of. And one of those secrets would soon turn my perfectly normal, predictable life completely on its head.