At one point Sarah could have sworn Ethan had been about to speak, but the silence continued to stretch between them. Without conversation, the sounds of the gentle rumble of the engine and the hiss of air coming from the vents resounded in her ears. It was awkward and the woman began feeling self-conscious. To stave off further discomfort, she removed her phone from the pocket of her jeans and began to browse. Alerts and warning messages were plastered across the internet not by officials, but by random people who seemed frustrated with the lack of answers they were receiving. On the message boards she read one person saying they refused to step outside. Another warned not to go to a hospital. Someone said their hometown had been quarantined, but most others claimed the original poster was a liar. Sarah didn't know what to believe.

Stepping out of the cruiser, she lingered at the car as Ethan spoke for the first time since they'd left the motel. He sounded like a concerned parent. Aware from small town gossip that he'd become a father over the years, she could tell, and she imagined in ten years he'd be having this same conversation with his own daughter. Though she offered a smile of gratitude the wounds were still fresh. Slipping his number in her pocket, she made her way to the venue set up showing her tickets at the gate. 

Her name, as expected, had gotten around. Sarah was let backstage where she was offered a seat. From behind the curtain her crystal eyes scanned over the cheering masses, the sound of their collecting yells and the music was deafening. Rock had never been her thing, not really, preferring to listen to country crooners. It'd been an acquired taste. While Sarah had always been more of a bubble-gum pop girl, Lena was the one who'd listen to Rock, Alternative, and Heavy Metal. Once, out of spite, her sister had blasted Death Metal and Sarah remembered the lead singer, if singing is what it could even be called, sounded like a clogged drain pipe. It was the content of the music her parents had opposed to and as a result all music with the exception of country, oldies, or gospel had been banned from the Hanson household. 

Johnny startled her out of her thoughts and she stood to meet him, body stiff from surprise as he took her in a hug. She didn't say anything allowing him to do the talking for both. The goal for the evening had been to take her mind off of things, but she found it was still wandering, still drifting, and no matter where she turned to look it always drifted back to the stain on the carpet and the blood on her father's hands. 

He was more attentive than she thought he'd be and she appreciated his attempts to distract her. From behind the partition she could hear the muffled sounds of people having fun. They didn't seem to care about anything that was happening or, like her, they knew and were just trying to take their minds off of it as well; she couldn't tell which.

Sarah leaned against Johnny during the ride to his house, wisps of blonde curls draped across his shoulder as her eyes blankly fixated on the velvet curtains in front of them. It had been a leap of faith to turn to Johnny and in the moment she felt she'd made the right choice. He understood what she was going through.

When the bus pulled up to the house there were already dozens of cars parked on the winding driveway. Eager party-goers had already unloaded their equipment, setting up radios, lawn chairs, and portable strobe lights out in the yard. Others carried kegs on their shoulders waiting for someone to open the door, an antsy jerk to their step as if they'd break it down themselves if it didn't happen soon. With half the concert and nearly half the town in attendance, the main house wasn't enough to contain the revelry and it extended out to the barn where a small group of people already drunk tried to lure the horses from their stables to give them alcohol. 

Following him to the bar she was beguiled by the array of colorful drinks and while she didn't drink, she was tempted to take one all the same. “Not so much,” she admitted with a sigh. Instead of one of the jello shots, she chose a turquoise blue wine cooler. She imagined it would taste like the blue flavored Popsicles she would get during the hot summer months. It did not taste like a Popsicle. Grimacing at the sterile, inflammatory taste lingering in her mouth, she decided to hold the glass bottle rather than drink the rest. Scanning over the crowd, she stopped a man vaguely families in appearance. Absentmindedly she brought the bottle to her lips before the smell of fermented fruit abandoned at bottom of an airless cellar reminded her of the unpleasant taste and she lowered it again. 

The bandage around his hand sparked the kindling of a memory and soon she recognized him as the man with the dog-bite from earlier. He was more wan than he'd previously been and sweat covered him head to toe. The man wasn't smiling even as his friend chatted at him and playfully punched him in the shoulder. He stumbled back, scratching at the gauze. The bite appeared infected as its reach spread traveling in large red streaks up his arm like a spiderweb up his arm. The medical bandage around his wrist had putrid yellow stains soaking through it. Sarah looked away from him, but she listened in on the conversation as one of the girls in the group informed him that he needed to see a doctor about the bite—not given by a dog, but a rabid homeless man—and his response that he already had along with a vial of antibiotics back at the house.

“He was at the pharmacy,” she recalled to Johnny, but remembered Johnny had arrived after the man had already left. There was a guilt for listening in to their private conversation and to make up for it, she began to wander away from the group giving them ample space.