Carter’s radio shrieked. A voice, layered like a choir of machines, spoke a single word through the speakers: “Acknowledge.”

Inside that house, Joanna was waiting. She didn't know for whom, or for what, but she felt the pressure in her inner ear. The birds had stopped singing an hour ago. Even the wind seemed to be holding its breath. She clutched a heavy brass candlestick, her knuckles white. The shadows in the corner of her living room weren't behaving. They stretched toward her even when she moved the lamp away. Then, the sky cracked.

The static on the radio didn’t just hiss; it whispered. Carter sat in his rusted Ford, parked on a ridge overlooking the Montana wilderness. The sky wasn’t just dark—it was a bruised, heavy purple, pressing down on the jagged peaks of the Bitterroot Range. He flicked his lighter, the flame dancing in his reflection. He wasn't here for the view. He was here because the "threads" had pulled him.

He gripped the steering wheel. The threads were tightening. He shifted the truck into gear and began the descent. The engine roared, but the sound was swallowed by the silence of the valley. He had to reach Joanna. They were the only two people on the grid who could see the stitches coming undone.