She ran to the generator room. The engine was off—she’d checked before bed. But now the fuel gauge read , and the starter key was missing. On the dusty workbench, someone had scratched a new line into the safety rules:

Standing ten feet from the door was the porcelain man. He held up a sign written in crayon: “SASSIE, LET’S PLAY.”

On the screen, a man in an old Coast Guard uniform stood motionless, his back to the camera. The timestamp read .

The squirrel is back. It’s holding a tiny key.