Mary Grace reaches out to touch the flames swirling around their party bug, around the dead kid an entire town agreed to forget. Will it glow? Will it hurt her? She doesn't necessarily want to play hero—she is, at her very heart, a journalist—but she wants to know first.

"I bet I could lasso it," Mary Grace offers. She has a board with a nail on it, a piece of fencing from the old broken down stables, just in case things get hairy, but she's better off with a rope.

Mary Grace breaks away from Presley's defense area, in the direction of the cowering Burton Bland. "I wonder how his nipples really look."