The film opened not on the Camber farm, but on a grainy, home-video version of her own driveway. There she was, taking out the trash three days ago. And in the corner of the frame, sitting on the edge of her property, was a massive, foam-flecked St. Bernard. Its eyes were red as brake lights.

The last thing she saw before the screen went black was a new line of text, typed in that same tired Courier font:

She tried to scream, but the only sound that came out was a faint, staticky hum—the sound of a buffering wheel finally spinning to a stop.