A moonless August night on Route 17 in eastern Kentucky. Luna pulls off at a faded motor court called the Sleepy Hollow Inn, drawn by a single working light: the swimming pool, glowing turquoise through chain-link. The clerk is a woman in a beige cardigan who says the motel has been closed for three years. She says the pool filter hums on its own. She says there's something at the bottom that wasn't there when she locked the gate. Luna walks out to the concrete deck and looks down through twelve feet of chlorinated stillness at a shape that is not a leaf, not a shadow, not anything that should be wearing a child's nightgown.

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