In the small Michigan town of St. Ignace, the municipal parking garage on State Street has a reputation for swallowing cars and spitting them back hours later with the odometer rolled forward. Luna's cousin Nate worked the night shift there one winter, and what he saw in the security monitors—and what he found in the elevator shaft—made him quit without collecting his last paycheck. This is a story about the spaces between floors, the moments when concrete remembers what was poured into it, and the particular dread of a garage elevator that keeps opening on a level that doesn't exist.

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