The sun slid down the glass like a glob of honey—dark and tawny like buckwheat honey, not light and clear like clover. Amber watched the fiery globe until it hit the tree line and disappeared behind the roof of the MacMillan’s two-story house across the street. Twenty more minutes, thirty tops, and the sky would be molasses black.

Where are they?

“Dad told us to stay away from the windows,” said a voice like a box cutter on cardboard. Fourteen was a weird boy age to begin with, but James’ ton...