The oppressive quiet of the St. Fond house was a living thing, thick and heavy like the stale air in Jon's room. Outside, the last vestiges of Indian summer clung to the suburban trees, their leaves rustling with a dry, knowing whisper. Inside, the familiar scent of old dust and something vaguely metallic—like old pennies and dried blood—permeated the walls.

Jon sat on the edge of his bed, the worn spiral notebook, disguised as "geometry notes," clutched in his hand. The words he’d scrawled inside, a raw outpouring of teenage rage and fear, felt like a dangerous secret, a lifeline in a world determined to suffocate him. He could still feel the phantom ache in his hand where the squirrel had bitten him, a small, tangible reminder of his mother's casual cruelty and his own helplessness.

From downstairs, the faint, high-pitched squawk of his mother’s voice carried, lecturing someone – probably Catherine’s scout troop. Then, the rhythmic thump of a basketball being dribbled outside. Michael. He was waiting. Jon shoved the notebook under his small, flickering black-and-white TV, its rabbit ears adorned with tinfoil like a makeshift crown.

He had to escape. Even if it was just for a few hours, lost in the fantastical world of Crixen Runeburner, where he was a hero, not a victim.