She lived in a wooden building that Dylan could only describe as a shack, surrounded by miles and miles of flat plains. It was an isolated and wild place, with yapping dogs and rolling thunderclouds overhead, though whatever rain lurked amongst the steel grey stayed in the sky. Eliza. The oldest soul that Jonas knew. If anyone was going to be able to give her answers, he told Dylan, it was Eliza

Jonas had taken her there simply by walking through another of the doors on his street. One moment they had been surrounded by buildings, the next, sand and tumbleweed. Dylan watched him close a rickety gate, warped pieces of wood held together with rusting nails.

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