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Anna still smells the burnt rubber of the BQE crash when she steps off the plane in Florida, her suitcase bumping against her shins, heavy with her mom’s lavender sachets and her dad’s old jazz LPs they never got to pack properly. Her parents died three weeks ago—a drunk driver ran a red light, crushed their sedan into a guardrail—and the only family left is Ethel, her grandma on her mom’s side, a woman her mom hadn’t spoken to in twenty years, after a fight about her dad’s “bohemian lifestyle” that no one ever explained. The Florida air hits her like a wet blanket, thick with salt and rotting sawgrass, nothing like the sharp, cold bite of New York October. Ethel’s house is a peeling yellow bungalow with plastic flamingos lined up along the porch, mothball scent hitting Anna before the screen door even creaks open. The old woman doesn’t hug her, just hands her a key to the attic room, its single window looking out at miles of marsh where egrets pick at mud, and tells her dinner’s on the stove at 6. Anna spends her first week at her new high school sitting alone at a lunch table, picking at a PB&J, while everyone else laughs in clusters that have existed since kindergarten. She wears her dad’s oversized black hoodie every day, chipped black nail polish, combat boots that scuff the linoleum, and everyone calls her “the New York girl” like it’s an insult. Then Tyler and Jessa find her. Tyler’s a football linebacker with a buzz cut and a habit of cracking his knuckles; Jessa’s his cousin, always chewing bubblegum that snaps loud enough to make people jump. They invite her to a bonfire by the St. Johns River, hand her a warm can of Busch Light, tell her she’s “too cool for this hick town.” Anna drinks it too fast, desperate for the warmth of belonging, for someone to ask her how she’s doing instead of staring at her like she’s a ghost. They take her to parties, let her sit in the back of Tyler’s truck, laugh at her jokes about Brooklyn bodegas. She thinks maybe this is how it gets better. Two weeks later, they ask her for a favor. “Just keep watch, okay?” Jessa says, popping her gum, handing Anna her glittery pink purse. “Mikey stole my grandma’s oxy, we’re just gonna scare him into giving it back.” Mikey’s a quiet kid who wears glasses taped together with clear tape, who sits two rows ahead of Anna in biology. She knows it’s wrong—her gut twists, sour like the cheap beer—but she nods, because if she says no, they’ll stop inviting her. She stands under a streetlight three blocks from the park, hears Mikey’s scream cut off sharp, hears the thud of fists on flesh, and doesn’t move. She holds Jessa’s purse, feels the hard edge of a lighter and a half-eaten lollipop through the fabric, and tells herself it’s not her fault. Mikey ends up in a coma with a fractured skull and two missing teeth. They tell the cops he fell off his bike. Anna doesn’t correct them. It starts with Tyler. He shows up to school three days later with a black eye patch, lies and says he got in a bar fight in Orlando. But Anna sees the way his hands shake when he lights a cigarette, the way he flinches when anyone gets too close. Then Jessa texts her at 2am, a photo of her pillowcase soaked in dark blood, her right eye socket empty, the skin around it raw and jagged. He’s in my dreams, Anna, the text reads. The little boy. He says eye for an eye. He’s coming for you too. Anna’s first dream hits that same night. Mr. Sandman isn’t a monster at first—just a little boy in a tattered red plaid shirt, no older than seven, his face blurry, his voice a rasp like dry leaves. Eye for an eye, he whispers, over and over, his cold fingers brushing her eyelids. She wakes up with scratches on her cheeks, her pillow damp with sweat, the phrase echoing in her head. She goes to the town library the next day, digs through microfiche of 1958 newspapers, finds a missing person report for Billy Halloway, seven years old, last seen playing marbles by the old sawmill. The article quotes a deputy saying witnesses reported a group of older boys attacking him, muttering eye for an eye as they dragged him into the marsh. The case went cold. No body was ever found. She asks Ethel about it that night, over sweet tea that’s too syrupy to drink. The old woman’s hands tremble as she stirs her glass. “Billy lived two doors down,” she says soft. “I saw those boys—half the town’s founding families, their granddaddies were on the council. No one wanted to make a fuss. Billy’s spirit never left. He takes an eye for an eye, no more, no less. Anyone who hurts someone, anyone who stands by and lets it happen… he comes for them.” Ethel reaches across the table, grabs Anna’s wrist, her grip surprisingly strong. “You helped them, didn’t you? You stood by.” Anna cries then, ugly, heaving sobs, admits to holding the purse, to not stopping them, to being too lonely to do the right thing. Ethel tells her the only way to break the curse is to give Billy a proper burial, and make Tyler and Jessa confess to what they did—own up to the violence, stop hiding it. But when Anna finds Tyler and Jessa, huddled in Tyler’s truck with a duffel bag of clothes, they laugh at her. “You’re the one who cursed us,” Tyler spits, his patch slipping to show the empty socket underneath. “We’re leaving. You can take the fall.” Anna doesn’t let them. She goes to the old sawmill at dusk, digs through the soft dirt where Ethel told her Billy was dumped, finds his small bones, the frayed plaid shirt, a glass marble blue as the river. She carries them to the marsh where Billy died, wades into the mud until her boots sink, and sets the marble on a flat rock. “I’m sorry,” she says, her voice breaking. “I’m sorry I didn’t stop them. I’m sorry no one helped you.” The air goes still, the cicadas stop buzzing, and for a second she sees Billy’s face clear as day—round cheeks, a gap-toothed smile—before he fades into the mist. The dreams stop that night. Tyler and Jessa still lose their eyes. Eye for an eye doesn’t care if you run. They get arrested two days later when Anna drags them to the sheriff’s station, makes them confess to beating Mikey. Mikey wakes up from his coma a month later; he’ll walk again, but his vision’s never quite right. The town puts up a headstone for Billy Halloway in the cemetery, finally acknowledging what happened, after Anna digs up the old cover-up files and sends them to the county paper. Anna stays in Florida. She still lives with Ethel, sends Mikey cards every week, volunteers at the library archiving old town records so no other kids get forgotten. She has both her eyes, but she flinches every time she sees a little boy in a plaid shirt, every time she hears someone say eye for an eye as a joke. She knows the curse is broken, but the guilt doesn’t go away. It’s a scar, same as the ones Tyler and Jessa wear on their faces, same as the ones Billy carried to his grave. She learned the hard way: standing by is the same as hitting. And Mr. Sandman always collects his debt.