prolouge

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"Gwennie!" yelled Mr. Stacy, alerting his daughter he'd returned home, waiting for her response.

"Gwen!" he asked again, assuming she hadn't heard him.

Silence.

"Gwendolyn!" he shouted, more infuriated. Mr. Stacy stompers up the stairs and into his stubborn, music-loving teenage daughter's room, expecting her to be laying on her bed with a pair of headphones in, blasting music into her ears until she goes deaf.

Peering through the doorway, he immediately realizes Gwen isn't there. Just some wrenches and other miscellaneous tools and parts on her desk.

Her phone was still there.

Her backpack was there.

Headphones there.

Everything was fine.

But Gwen was gone.

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