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?'

Eli doesn't believe a word of it. He laughs and reaches for the glowing threads to prove they're fake. 'Don't touch that!' Mara yells, but it's too late. His fingers brush Saturday's strand and it snaps. The basement goes white. When it clears, the chair is empty, and so is the spot where Eli was standing. Mara grabs the screen and finds his thread, frayed but still there. With shaking hands she ties the loose end back down. The white light flares again, and then Eli is sitting on the basement floor, blinking, asking what just happened. She doesn't let go of him for a long time.