“How many do we have now?” Ben said. He’d been buzzed at the beginning, but events had given him a quick, sharp sobriety.

Amanda counted with a shaking hand. “Twelve,” she said. “When I brought them out to the grill, the basement was empty.”

Ben worried the woodcut in his hands. “Wait,” he said. “We didn’t burn this one. It was the last, so that’s…thirteen.”

“You just took it out of the basement.” Amanda looked at the line of woodcuts, each carefully leaned against the wall by invisible, unknowable hands. “Does that mean…?”

“No,” Ben said, firmly. “We’re just seeing things. Stress and the virus. Creepy things and too much beer after we’ve been taking it easy. Maybe we popped an Adderol we don’t remember.”

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