A couple days later, John and I were sitting on the screened porch, him smoking a cigarette. We were talking about Honesdale, the closest town, and their weird cult- for as long as I've known, they had been obsessed with trains. Specifically, the Stourbridge Lion, because it was the first steam-powered locomotive to run in the US, and it just so happened to run through Honesdale. John and I joked about how they praised the Mighty Stourbridge Lion God because EVERYTHING in Honesdale had to do with trains, even though it's been a few centuries since the last bit of it was destroyed (except for winter, when it's about "Walking in a Winter Wonderland". Seriously, nobody listens to that song anymore). We watched the sun set over at the woods, the chickens wandering around by the coop and the soft moos from the farm next to us filling the air.

Dad stepped out to the screened porch, James following him. He waved her away and went to talk with John. "I got a message from Sam," he said, holding up his messanger-a small device that was used primarily for texting and replaced cell phones some hundred years ago-around the same time "Walking in a Winter Wonderland" died out.

"Yeah?" John asked, looking up at him and blowing smoke in his face.

Dad wrinkled his nose against the smoke. "We're sending another one back tomorrow."

"Really?"

Dad nodded. "But it's weird. He says that-this is going to sound totally insane-you remember those two kids? The siblings?"

"Skidmark, or whatever their names are?" James and I both giggled, but Dad rolled his eyes. "Skidmore, John. It's Skidmore. For the love of God."

"Sorry. What about them?"

"So... he says that the best solution, the best projection, was sending them with her."

"Wait, wait-which kid are we talking about?"

"Dare. Oh, and for some reason, he threw in a dog. Because why not."

"Wait," I said. "What are you talking about?"

"Your Dad's now Janitor Boy," John told us.

James giggle deeply. "What?"

"Don't ask," he muttered. "Just don't ask."

"Too late," I said. "So what's going on?"

"James, isn't it your bedtime?" Dad asked.

"Don't try to change the subject, JB," John said. "Tell them about how you had to act like a janitor to relay info to a poor, puking boy. And scared the crap out of a girl, too."

"Maybe at a later date. James, it's nine o'clock. Go to bed."