The machine in the basement is just a chair, a screen, and a thin needle of cold blue light. Mara built it from her dad's old notes after the funerals. Seven times this week she has watched her brother Eli die. Every loop ends the same way: the river behind the highway takes him before she can shout his name. Tonight the screen shows a glowing thread for each day. One thread is Saturday afternoon. She can cut it like a loose stitch. Her hand hovers over the light.

Before Mara touches anything, footsteps thump down the basement stairs. It's Eli, alive, holding a flashlight. 'I heard the humming again,' he says. He stares at the chair and the screen and the threads of light. 'Mara. What is this thing? And why does it have my name on it?'