It's the summer of 2006 in the dying town of Jericho, Missouri. The heat hasn't broken for forty-two days. Luna's cousin Ray runs the feed store, the last business on Main Street that isn't boarded up. He tells her about the church bell that started ringing at night—one slow, heavy toll, always at 2:17 AM. Nobody rings it. The door's chained shut. But the sound carries across the empty lots and cracked asphalt, and the old-timers remember what it meant, back when Jericho was still a railroad town. Luna drives out one night to hear it for herself. She parks a block away, leaves the engine running, watches the dark steeple against a sky that's an inch too close. The bell tolls. Twice. Something under the sound, a deeper vibration she feels in her chest. The next morning she asks Ray how the church got its name. He gives her the old pamphlet, yellowed and soft, from the centennial in 1982. The reverend who built it, a man named Silas Tull, claimed he'd been shown the plans in a vision. The steeple was built exactly two feet taller than the town charter allowed. Nobody knows why. But the bell—the bell was cast from something that wasn't bell metal. The foundry in St. Louis refused to say what went into it. Ray told her to stop asking questions. But at night, when she closes her eyes, she still hears that low note. And she knows, deep down, that it's not a bell. It's something else. Something that's been waiting for the town to get quiet enough to hear.