It's Christmas Eve, 1997, on the outskirts of Harlow, Ohio. Luna's car dies on a back road, and she takes shelter on the porch of an abandoned house — St. Lucy's, the locals call it, though no church ever stood there. A single bell hangs on the door, tied with a red ribbon. She rings it, because that's what you do at a door, isn't it? What answers isn't a person. But it speaks in a voice that sounds like frost splitting wood, and it tells her a story about another girl, another Christmas Eve, and a debt that was never paid. By the time the snow lets up, Luna understands why the bell is never rung twice. She leaves it hanging. But she hears it sometimes, even now, when the wind is just right.