The data entry job at Dr. Evans's clinic was, as promised, boring as hell.
Amanda sat in a small, windowless back room that smelled of dust and ozone from the old computer tower. The task was simple: take the handwritten patient charts from the last twenty years and transfer the basic information—name, date of birth, recurring complaints—into a new digital system. It was mind-numbing, repetitive work.
And yet, she found a strange rhythm in it. There was a history in these files, a secret census of the town's aches and pains. Mr. Peterson's arthritis. The Henderson boys' various fractures and contusions. Agnes Higgins's annual check-ups, her blood pressure creeping up year after year after her husband passed.
She was inputting the file for Lena Flores's daughter, Mia, when she saw it. A note from a visit two weeks prior. Mother reports household pet (cat, "Jasper") exhibiting strange behavior: nocturnal hyperactivity, aversion to water bowl. Child mildly febrile, likely unrelated virus. Advised rest, fluids.
A cat. Aversion to its water bowl.
The detail snagged in her mind like a fishhook. She'd heard that before. Recently. She leaned back in the chair, the springs groaning. Where?
The Quick-Stop. Lena herself, buying milk, looking exhausted. "He won't touch his water. I have to dribble it from the tap for him."
A coincidence. Pets got sick. Kids got fevers. It was the basic rhythm of life.
But the journalist in her, the part she'd tried to bury under a red Quick-Stop vest, wouldn't let it go. It was a loose thread. And her fingers itched to pull it.
She finished her shift, the dry, academic air of the clinic a stark contrast to the greasy, lively chaos of the Quick-Stop. Stepping outside was like coming up for air. The late afternoon sun was warm on her face.
Instead of heading straight home, she turned her steps toward Sea Grass Lane. Lena's house was a small, neat bungalow similar to her mother's, with a tricycle parked in the driveway.
Lena answered the door on the second knock, looking surprised to see her. Mia was clinging to her leg, hiding her face shyly.
"Amanda! Hi. Everything okay?"
"Yeah, yeah," Amanda said, feeling suddenly foolish. What was she doing? "I was just in the neighborhood. I, uh… I was at the clinic today, helping Dr. Evans with some filing. I saw Mia's chart. I just wanted to check in, see how she was doing. And how Jasper is."
Lena's face softened. "That's so sweet of you. Mia's all better, thanks. Jasper, though…" She lowered her voice. "He's still a weirdo. Honestly, it's like he's possessed. He's taken to hiding in the craziest places. And he's still obsessed with the sink. He'll sit and stare at the drip and meow like it's the most fascinating thing in the world. Won't go near his bowl."
Amanda felt a cold trickle of something that wasn't curiosity. It was the first chill of unease. "His water bowl? He still won't drink from it?"
"Not a chance. I finally gave up and just give him water in a saucer. He laps that up just fine. It's the weirdest thing." She shook her head. "Cats, right?"
"Right," Amanda echoed, her voice faint.
She made polite small talk for a few more minutes before excusing herself. As she walked away, her mind was racing. One cat was an anomaly. A sick pet. But…
She thought about Mr. Feng's comment. "Lots of sick animals lately. Old Mrs. Higgins's dog ran off last week."
Buster. The dog that was Agnes's whole world. The dog that had run off after acting strange.
She pulled out her phone and texted Chloe. Hey. Weird question. Does Mittens have any new weird habits?
Chloe's response was almost immediate. OMG YES. She's been a MENACE. Knocking stuff off shelves at 3 AM. And she's suddenly a faucet fiend. Why?
No reason, Amanda texted back, her thumb trembling slightly. Just something I heard.
She stood on the sidewalk, the peaceful neighborhood seeming to tilt on its axis. A conspiracy of coincidences. A pattern of bizarre pet behavior centered around water.
Her professional skepticism, long dormant, was now fully awake and screaming. This was a story. A small, strange, local story. But a story nonetheless.
She found herself walking not toward home, but toward the water. Toward the cannery. The source of the town's water, according to the complex system of wells and pipes she'd half-learned about in a town council meeting months ago.
She stood across the street from the massive NCC fence. The sweet, cloying smell was stronger here, unmistakable. It was the smell from the clinic's trash bin out back. It was the smell she'd caught near the cannery before.
She looked at the ground near the fence, where Hank McCullough had been working. Among the weeds, she saw them. Thick, ropy webs, glistening with an unnatural, oily sheen. They weren't like any spiderweb she'd ever seen. They looked… strong. Deliberate.
Her breath caught in her throat. It was nothing. It was just a new kind of insect, something from the hold of one of NCC's ships. An invasive species. It happened.
But the pieces, the loose threads, were beginning to form a shape in her mind. A shape she couldn't quite see yet, but could feel. It was the shape of something wrong. Something unseen.
She wasn't just imagining it. The dots were connecting themselves, and they were drawing a picture of something happening just beneath the surface of her town. In the water. In the animals. In the very air.
She turned and walked home, her pace quick. The quiet of Willow Creek didn't feel peaceful anymore. It felt like the quiet before a storm. And for the first time since she'd come back, Amanda Hustley didn't feel bored, or stuck, or frustrated.
She felt the old, familiar thrill of the hunt. She had a story. And she was going to pull on the thread until the whole thing unraveled.