Jenna Santos's POV:
I left Keegan's house in a complete daze.
Fear gripped my throat like claws. It was a cold, sharp terror, deeper than anything I had ever felt before.
Keegan's terrified face, his endless counting, the scars on his hand—they were all burned permanently into my memory.
I sprinted all the way home. I needed the familiarity and warmth of my house. I needed Nana. Only she would understand me. Only she could guide me.
I burst through the front door. Nana looked up. "Jenna? You're home late. Where have you been?"
I blurted everything out all at once. "Nana, it's Keegan. He's sick. Really sick. And his hand, Nana. There are marks on it. Just like the carvings on the bone." The words spilled out of me in a frantic, rushed panic.
"He's counting, Nana," I continued, my voice trembling. "One, two, three. Over and over. Just like in my dream. Just like that counting man Mr. Mason talked about." I held out my fingers, mimicking Keegan's tapping motion.
Nana went dead pale, her eyes wide with terror. "Stop it!" she hissed, grabbing my arm. Her grip was surprisingly strong. "Don't say such things! Not in this house!"
She was shaking, fear radiating off her in waves.
"You are never to speak of this again," Nana whispered, her voice barely audible, as if terrified someone else might hear. "It's superstition. All lies. He's just a boy with a fever, out of his mind."
She tried to deny it, tried to justify it to herself, but her eyes betrayed her.
"But Nana, the marks," I pressed. "They're just like..."
She cut me off. "Quiet! It's nothing. Just a coincidence. He probably scratched himself."
"Jenna, you have to promise me," she said, her tone desperate. "You cannot tell anyone. Do not breathe a word of this to a soul. Not one word."
I noticed her hands trembling slightly. Her eyes darted around the room. Her usual calm demeanor was completely gone. It was like she was hiding something. She was utterly terrified.
Nana knew. She knew way more than she was letting on. She fully understood the horror of it. I could feel it too. The curse was real. And she knew it.
"Grandma, what about the bone?" I asked softly. "The one Keegan took. What does it actually mean?" I was trying to pry the truth out of her.
She turned away and started fussing with a potted plant on the windowsill. "That bone is nothing. Just an old relic. Let it go." She avoided my gaze.
I retreated to my room and sat on my bed, my mind racing. Nana's fear wasn't for herself; it was for me. She was protecting me, but from what? And why the secrecy?
At dinner, Nana was quiet. She barely touched her food and wouldn't look at me. Her eyes kept drifting toward the window. She seemed to be listening, watching for something.
Outside, the wind howled, rattling the windowpanes like distant, mournful cries, echoing the turmoil inside me. The house felt like a fragile shield against an invisible threat.
"Go to sleep, child," Nana said, her voice raspy. "You look exhausted. You need rest." She just wanted me safely tucked away in my room, far from whatever she feared.
Later, long after I was supposed to be asleep, I heard her moving around. Soft footsteps, the faint rustle of fabric. I tiptoed to my door and peeked out through a crack.
Nana was in the living room. She had lit several candles and set up a small altar. On it sat a crucifix, a statue of the Virgin Mary, and a bowl of water.
She began chanting softly in Spanish. Her voice trembled.
She clutched her rosary, her lips moving rapidly as she crossed herself over and over. Her prayers were devout, but dripping with desperation. Her face was etched with fear, yet illuminated by a fierce resolve. She was fighting against some unseen force.
I remembered the stories she told, her steadfast faith, her "old-school" ways. These weren't just quaint traditions; they were her armor. They were her weapons against things only she seemed to understand.
And I was only just beginning to grasp what those things were.
My heart ached. For Nana, for Keegan, for all of us. I tossed and turned in bed. The air in my room felt thick and heavy, as if saturated with some invisible, crackling energy.
I heard the numbers again. Inside my head. One. Two. Three. Keegan's voice. The Counter's voice.
I drifted into a restless sleep, plagued by fragmented dreams filled with shifting shadows and dark whispers.
I didn't understand Nana's secrets.
She was protecting me. But her denial of the truth was building a wall between us. It left me feeling completely isolated.
My scientific upbringing violently clashed with my grandmother's folk wisdom. I felt torn, unable to reconcile the two. My world felt like it was crumbling.
The worry for Keegan never left me. It was a dull ache that occasionally flared into sharp panic. What would happen tomorrow? What about the others?
