At three a.m., August 4th, the first of many cornfield nightmares jarred Delia out of her sleep. She jerked up from her bed, coated in a thin film of sweat. In the nightmare, she was standing alone on the edge of her cornfield, which now lay in a scorched waste, as if a horde of Vikings had marauded through and torched everything in sight. There was nothing more to the dream, but it left her with an overwhelming feeling of impotence and devastating loss. Unable to drift back to sleep, she decided her only chance at salvaging another hour or two of sleep was to first stretch her legs and reboot her disturbed psyche with a brief trip to the kitchen. In the hallway, a slit of light was emanating out from under the door to the computer room. She assumed she’d forgotten to shut it down so she pushed the door open. Her 13-year-old daughter, Corey, was sitting there, expressionless, almost robotic in the white preternatural glow of the screen. It was as if she were trapped within the abduction beam of an alien vessel. She was wearing headphones and typing in short fast bursts between pauses. Delia slowly walked towards Corey until she was standing directly behind her. On the screen was a man in a hooded sweatshirt, probably in his late thirties or early forties. Despite the pixilation, Delia could see the shock on his face as he registered her presence through the video chat. Then, the MSN box vanished from the screen.