End.
Something small darted ahead: a boy, no older than eight, hair plastered to his forehead with river gloss, eyes wide with a knowledge that tasted old. He didn’t run from them. He ran to them.
“Help,” it echoed. “Bring the light.”
Sometimes, on nights when the moon leaned wrong, Elliott would ride his bike to the river and listen. From the other bank, he thought he could see, deep under the surface, a movement that was not quite water. It watched the light in the tower and then dove, leaving a whisper of questions curling across the town.