I obeyed the voice and crept down before sunrise, drawn by my mom's stolen words. At the lowest step waited a row of empty chairs, one for every family that ever lived here. The last chair had my name carved in it. As I sat, the cold tucked me in like a blanket, and I finally understood the rent was always paid in children.

I ripped the monitor off the floor and threw it down the stairs. It clattered into the dark, and the voice laughed, delighted, getting fainter. "You'll come anyway," it called. "They always come." I told my whole family the next morning. We packed the car by noon and left Hollow Marsh for good, but I still count my steps everywhere I go.