“Are you ready?” Charles asked, turning his head to look at me in the dim dashboard light.

“I’ve spent years waiting for a sign,” I said, though my voice trembled with the cold and the fear.

“I can’t turn back now.”

We opened our doors, and the freezing air immediately hit my face like a physical blow, stealing the breath from my lungs.

I pulled my collar tight around my neck and hurried behind Charles toward the heavy double doors of the entrance.

Above the door, a rusted brass plaque was bolted to the concrete: *Saint Jude’s Sanctuary*.

Charles pushed the silver intercom button next to the glass.

A sharp, grating buzz sounded, and the heavy electronic lock clicked open.

We stepped inside, instantly greeted by the blast of dry, artificial heat and the sharp, chemical smell of bleach.

The lobby was stark, tiled in pale green linoleum that had dulled and cracked with age.

A circular reception desk sat in the center of the room under a flickering fluorescent tube.

Behind the desk sat a woman with tired, sunken eyes and grey hair pulled into a tight bun.