It was the day of the Founders’ Day Parade.

  Sadie was riding squished like a sardine in the back of the car, accordioned behind her dad, who always drove with the seat back as far as it would go and reclined it as if he was going to take a nap while driving. Her chin was practically on her knees, and she could barely breathe, nearly cut in half by the stiff denim of her skin-tight jeans. To make it worse, the jeans smelled like pure hell. They were the same jeans she’d worn into the sewer yesterday, but they were her only option after her mom, caught up in all the excitement with the sheriff last night, had forgotten to put the laundry in the dryer.

  I should have worn the other pants, she thought. Even if they were wet, anything—anything—would be better than this.

  The family rode in silence, each staring out their respective windows at the aftermath of last night’s storm. The neighborhood was littered with debris—leaves, twigs, loose garbage cans, and fallen branches were scattered everywhere.

  “Looks like Mr. Netherby’s pig got loose,” Dad chuckled, nodding toward the middle of the road where Mr. Netherby’s classic lawn ornament—a tusked boar’s skull—sat askew. Normally, the decoration seemed hokey, but today, staring at it from the middle of the road, it gave Sadie chills. Dad carefully steered the van around it.

  “The storm really did some damage,” he said, pointing at Mrs. Sheryll’s mailbox, now crushed beneath a heavy tree branch. Mrs. Sheryll stood in front of the mangled post, scowling at it. The little red flag was still raised high.

  Her dad rolled down the window. “No mail service today!” he called out cheerfully, “It’s a holiday!”

  Mrs. Sheryll didn’t so much as glance at him. Her attention locked on the mailbox, she tried to open its door, but it was jammed tight. Sadie’s dad slowed the car.

  “You coming to the parade?” he asked.

  As Mrs. Sheryll turned her scowl to the car, Sadie’s attention drifted across the street. On a neighboring lawn, amid the chaos of broken branches and scattered trash, a pristine red push-lawnmower sat gleaming in the sunlight. Its clean, vivid red was jarring against the backdrop of the storm’s wreckage. Sadie found it strangely—and strikingly—beautiful.

  Her dad rolled up the window and they pulled away, leaving Mrs. Sheryll to her scowl and her mailbox.

  “Poor Mrs. Sheryll,” he said, “All she’s got left in life is her daily letter to the editor. And today, she doesn’t even have that.”

  Her mom smiled, and reached across to rest her hand affectionately on his knee. “You’re such a sweet, softhearted man,” she said, and blew him a kiss.

  Sadie groaned, and the car turned onto Main Street. Lawn chairs, coolers, and camping chairs were already lining the road as people claimed the best spots to watch the parade. Red and silver streamers—Bend High’s colors—adorned the storefronts, fluttering in the breeze. Small-town pride was everywhere, but it wasn’t exactly Sadie’s scene. Still, it was better than sitting at home, alone with her thoughts and the creepy sewer letter tucked under her mattress.

  They parked near Carrie’s Diner, and her dad found a spot beneath a tree to set up their camping chairs. Sadie and Eli were relegated to sitting on the curb, while Mom and Dad settled comfortably in the shade on the sidewalk.

  Suddenly, Sadie caught sight of Clark Thompson sitting just across the street from her. Surprised, all she could think about was her dirty smelly jeans and unwashed hair—Why do you even care? she scolded herself, and anyway he’s all the way across the street. But still, to her horror, she could feel the burn rising in her face and suddenly she wanted nothing more than to fold herself into a tiny square and disappear.

  “What’s wrong with you?” Eli was staring at her, frowning.

  “What’s wrong with you?” she snapped.

  “You don’t have to be a butthead every day,” he said, “Today’s a holiday. Take the day off.”

  She ignored the jibe, watching as Clark, who was sitting with his mom, got up and walked over to where Penny Weimar was standing with her parents. Penny, dressed in blue jeans and a red blouse with a matching red scrunchie, blushed as Clark spoke to her. Sadie didn’t need to hear the words to know what was happening.

  He’s asking her to the dance. She forced a small smirk onto her face. So what? Those two losers definitely deserve each other.

  Penny’s cheeks grew even redder as she nodded. Clark’s face lit up in a way Sadie had never seen before. After a sweetly awkward goodbye, they returned to their respective spots along the road. The little scene had left Sadie with a strange mix of emotions she didn’t quite understand.

  But before she could sink too deep into that train of thought, the sharp clang of the town hall clock snapped her back into reality. It was ten o’clock. The parade was starting.

  The crowd shifted and pressed closer to the head of the parade line, where Mayor Blumenthal stood with a megaphone in hand.

  “All right, all right. Can you hear me?” he called out, adjusting the volume on the megaphone. A few people nodded in response. “I hope those of you who want to hear me can hear me. I get it—you’re all excited for the music, food, fun, and floats. But first, let’s give a round of applause for the boys who got the power back on this morning!”

  The crowd erupted into cheers and whistles, filling Main Street with a festive roar.

  The mayor smiled, then continued, “Now, I’d be remiss not to say something about our founders on Founders’ Day—so, bear with me for a moment.”

  His tone grew solemn. “Most of you know, Peter Holmstead died on Tuesday. I’ve been told that he died peacefully, with Alice at his side, and one of her fabulous peach pies baking in the oven. Now, I can’t say I’m excited to die. But that seems like an all right way to go—the aroma of peach pie in the air, and your life-long sweetheart right beside you. Of course, Peter will be greatly missed, and we offer the family our sincere condolences.”

  The mayor paused, giving the crowd a moment to murmur their agreement before continuing. “But we also want to offer their family our gratitude as we remember that great man and those other founders who helped found our humble community of Bend. I, for one, am a better man having known Pete. I once asked him why he picked up and left and decided this was the place to settle. He just smiled and said, ‘Because I had to.’”

  The mayor’s voice thickened slightly with emotion, “Now, I don’t really know what it’s like to have to pack up all my things and settle somewhere else, and make things work somewhere else, and turn absolutely nothing into something somewhere else. And I guess that’s, in part, thanks to Pete. It’s thanks to Pete that I’m not somewhere else, but that I get to share this fine day with all of you, in the beautiful town of Bend. So how about we give him three cheers to celebrate one of our great founders, without whom, we wouldn’t be here today. Ready? All right, then—”

  Hip hip, HOORAY!

  Hip hip, HOORAY!

  Hip hip, HOORAAAAY!

  The whole of main street was shouting. Cheers, whistles, and claps filled the air, echoing through every street and alleyway in the whole town.

  The author's tale has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

  The mayor smiled, raising a hand for quiet. “Thank you, everybody. Now one last thing before we get started. Young men—you know who you are, and you know what I’m about to say: ask those girls out. The Founders’ Dance is two weeks from today. I don’t want to see a single girl sitting by herself that night, you hear?”

  A few chuckles rippled through the crowd, and then someone shouted, “Parade!”

  The mayor grinned. “All right, all right. I’m done. Happy Founders’ Day everyone!” He flipped off the megaphone, gave a parting wave, and sat down in his lawn chair to watch the festivities.

  The parade’s momentum shifted as Mr. David Marshall, the high school’s marching band director, stepped to the front of the line. With a series of sharp, piercing whistles that reminded Sadie of a shrieking bird, he signaled the band to begin.

  The drums thundered, brass instruments blared, and the parade lurched into motion.

  First came a pair of police cars with their lights flashing, officers leaning out to toss candy to the eager hands of children lining the sidewalks. Behind them rolled the Knights of Athos Club float—a modest truck with a trailer decked out in gold streamers and the familiar heraldic shield hung from the back. Elderly men perched on benches waved and tossed candy with practiced ease.

  Then came the Bend High cheerleaders, a vibrant line of red and white, shaking pom-poms, shouting cheers, and hurling their bodies with impossible ease. Following the cheerleaders was the float of the Bend Needles Guild, a convertible car draped in dazzlingly colorful quilted banners. The mostly older women waved with warm smiles, their hands busily flinging candies into the crowd.

  The laughter grew louder as the Main Street Feet float rolled by—Dr. Simmons’ podiatry clinic’s contribution to the festivities. It featured a circle of people reclining in the back of a trailer, their feet decorated to look like tiny google-eyed people with green toes for hair. The tiny people rode perched on the edge of the trailer, wiggling their hair and dancing to a radio blaring “I Get Those Hap-Hap-Happy Tapping Feet,” while behind them candy was hurled to the crowd with surprising enthusiasm.

  From firefighters to the Firefly Scouts, one brilliant float after another passed by. The parade was a glittering showcase of small-town pride, bursting with energy, enthusiasm, and a generous helping of candy.

  But Sadie barely noticed. Her attention was elsewhere, her mind consumed by its own private parade of thoughts. The letter from the sewer. The cootie catcher.

  Labyrinth runner. That phrase stood out, nagging at her. What did it even mean?

  And, then, circling beneath it all, was Clark. Why had he tried so hard to stop her from going down that manhole? In spite of what she had said, she knew that he had been sincere about it. Clark was no bully. He really did not want her to go down there.

  Why did he try to protect her? Why did he care at all?

  The thought brought with it a strange sensation of...of what?

  She tried to shut off the feelings. Clark was annoying, stuck up, superior—

  He tried to protect you.

  So what? He doesn’t care about me. He asked Penny to the dance. He was happy to ask Penny to the dance—

  He stood up to the other boys for you.

  Who cares? He’s boring. Everything about him is utterly predictable.

  Maybe he knew what was down there.

  The thought stopped Sadie cold. No way. It was just too bizarre. Clark was Mr. Normal, Mr. Squeaky-Clean, Mr.—

  She suddenly became aware that something around her had changed. In the next second, the parade’s rhythm shattered. The music from the marching band faltered to an awkward stop, and the parade line ground to a standstill. People craned their necks, trying to peer around the floats ahead to see what was causing the commotion.

  That’s when she heard the voice—a piercing, desperate wail cutting through the hushed crowd.

  “My baby! Help me! My baby!”

  The sound drew everyone’s eyes to the source: a gaunt, barefoot woman in a filthy, faded yellow dress, staggering through the parade line. A frayed bag hung off one shoulder, and her matted hair framed a face twisted with agony.

  Sadie heard her dad’s voice behind her, a horrified whisper: “Dear God...”

  It was Christina Coyle.

  The realization rippled through the crowd. This was the same woman the entire town had searched for, nearly a year ago when she had vanished without a trace. Most had given up hope, assuming she had gone into the labyrinth—a suicide maybe, seeking the escape of the labyrinth’s permanent coma. Everyone in town knew, Christina had it rough at home.

  And now, here she was, stumbling down the middle of Main Street, in the middle of a parade, clutching a battered book in one hand and her arms wrapped around her swollen stomach, and her face contorted in pain.

  She fell to her knees

  “Please, God, help me. Please, God. My baby is snakes! My baby is snakes!” she sobbed, her voice raw and ragged.

  Ms. Thompson broke away from Clark’s side and rushed toward Christina, her heels clicking against the asphalt. One of the firefighters leapt off a float to join her.

  “Christina,” Ms. Thompson said gently, kneeling beside her. “Let’s get you to the hospital.”

  Sadie was watching the crowd. Something strange was happening here. The air felt thick with tension, fear, and something darker.

  Christina was supposed to be dead. Everyone in Bend knew that. And if she wasn’t, it could only mean one thing.

  The labyrinth had sent her back.

  To the townspeople staring at her crumpled figure, Christina wasn’t just a desperate woman in need of help. She was something else—a grotesque manifestation of the labyrinth’s reach, a reminder of that thing they worked so hard to keep out of their town, their lives, and their minds.

  To them, Christina wasn’t a survivor. She was an omen.

  Sadie’s gaze shifted to Christina’s husband, John Coyle. After rushing forward, he now stood frozen in the middle of the street, pale and trembling, staring at the woman who had once been his wife.

  Meanwhile, Ms. Thompson and George Howy, the firefighter, flanked Christina on either side and helped her to her feet. The crowd’s discomfort was palpable—fear and revulsion rippling through their ranks.

  “My baby is snakes!” Christina moaned.

  “What do you mean?” Ms. Thompson asked. her voice trembling.

  “He put snakes in my belly,” Christina groaned, the words leaving her lips as though they pained her. “He gave me snakes. I did something wrong.” She raised a battered book in her hand, holding it out toward Ms. Thompson. “I did everything it told me to! I did everything—”

  The book slipped from her grasp as another wave of agony overtook her. Christina doubled over, her stomach writhing and pulsating in ways that no human body should. A ridge, like a coiled snake, pressed out against her skin before vanishing again.

  Howy stumbled back in horror, his mouth agape.

  “Get back here, George!” Ms. Thompson snapped. Howy reluctantly did as he was told, and the two of them began to carry her toward Ms. Thompson’s car.

  Then Sam Fielding, who was standing outside his hardware store, suddenly turned, walked into the store, and returned moments later with a rifle in hand.

  Sadie’s stomach dropped. She grabbed Eli’s shirt and yanked, pointing to Sam as he raised the weapon.

  The shot echoed through Main Street. Christina’s body jerked violently, blood blooming across her chest and spilling onto the pavement.

  Sadie recoiled as screams erupted around her and people scrambled to get away.

  Ms. Thompson collapsed beside Christina, blood splattered across her blouse, her bloody hands held stiff out in front of her.

  Sam Fielding stood still as a statue, the smoking rifle still raised and aimed at Christina’s lifeless form. He held it there until he was sure she was dead, then lowered it with a grim, unflinching expression.

  Sheriff Lynn, alerted by the gunfire, appeared from the other side of the parade. His pistol was already drawn as he surveyed the scene: Christina’s bloodied body sprawled on the ground, Ms. Thompson weeping beside her, and Sam Fielding standing stone-faced with the rifle in hand.

  “What the hell happened here, Fielding?” the sheriff barked, pointing his gun at the man.

  Fielding didn’t even flinch. “She came from there,” he said, gesturing toward the horizon.

  “From where?”

  “From the labyrinth, you idiot. She was gonna pop, and all her misery’d be our misery too.”

  The sheriff’s face tightened, “You stay right there. I’ll deal with you in a minute.” Then he turned toward the crowd. “All right, everybody move back! Let’s get that ambulance over here!”

  The crowd parted, and an ambulance decked out in gold streamers and a clown face papered on the front made its way slowly through.

  The mayor approached cautiously, still clutching his megaphone. His face was pale as his eyes flickered over the gruesome scene. The sheriff murmured a few words to him, and the mayor, shaken, raised the megaphone to his lips.

  “All right, everyone,” he began in a trembling whisper, “Let’s clear out, now. I’m…we’re going to get this...” His voice faltered as his eyes fell on Christina’s body.

  The sheriff stepped in, snatching the megaphone. “Everyone, clear out! Show’s over! Go home! Now!” he barked, his voice leaving no room for argument.

  As the crowd reluctantly dispersed, Sadie’s mind raced. She had never seen such violence up close. What would the sheriff do to Sam Fielding? Sure, Fielding had killed a woman—but it wasn’t just any woman. It was a woman who had come from the labyrinth, and Sadie knew most of the town would see his actions as justified.

  As she moved away with her family, she looked back over her shoulder and saw as Sheriff Lynn walked up to Fielding and wrenched the rifle from his hands.

  “You’re going to help me bury her, Fielding.”

  “Like shit I am.”

  “You said it.”

  Then the sheriff and Sam lifted Christina’s body into the back of the ambulance, draping a blanket over her to shield her from view. John Coyle hadn’t moved an inch, still standing pale and silent, watching the scene with haunted eyes.

  “Get in, Fielding,” the sheriff ordered.

  Fielding spat on the ground but climbed into the cab, scowling.

  The ambulance drove off, leaving Main Street empty, only the bloodstained pavement as a grim memento of what had happened.