Nelly wondered if she would ever grow accustomed to the eerie silence that took her mother’s place in the house. Sitting at the bare kitchen table, she stared at the revolving wooden spice rack that was always filled; she couldn’t imagine that those little bottles of thyme, paprika, ginger and nutmeg would never be touched by her mother’s fingers again.

Peg came over and helped Nelly pack up Cookie’s clothing which would be donated to the thrift shop run by the local church. This was a terribly emotional task but Nelly insisted it had to be done right away. She felt a need to move on quickly and get used to this new existence or else she would drown in it. She had to get used to a world in which nobody loved her unconditionally.

The skeptics who previously questioned Nelly’s near-death experiences demanded she leave Folding as soon as possible. “Evil flows through her veins,” ruthless Ruth Fontaine Grubber stated to the Folding Daily Press. “As long as she lives among us, we’re in grave danger.” The unmerciful, unwavering woman decided to organize a town hall meeting to discuss the crucial situation. Ruth truly believed she was doing good, protecting the families of Folding from potential harm.

Rain had been threatening to come down in buckets. When the clock struck five, the clouds burst open and water began to assault the community with frightening intensity. Still, scores of umbrella-carrying residents showed up to Folding Town Hall, a two-story brick building with a large front lawn, an auditorium that sat two hundred, and a vending machine that hadn’t been touched in years.

With her jet black hair, white powdered cheeks and fire engine red lips, Ruth Fontaine Grubber looked like a wicked schoolteacher whom every student feared. (Few knew that much of her irascibility was a result of her husband’s alcoholism.) In her imperious manner, she lifted her left arm as if waving to a sea of admirers. “Quiet down everyone,” she announced. A few feet to her right stood a large easel displaying letters that resembled tiles from a Scrabble game only much bigger—one square foot each. The letters spelled NELLY EVA HAGEN. Underneath the name, a number appeared: 13.

“Thank you for braving the inclement weather to discuss this extremely important matter.” She clasped her gloved hands. “Let’s get down to business, shall we? First a meteorite. Then lightning. Then a tragedy at the brewery in which twelve of Folding’s finest citizens perished. To drown in beer is a ghastly way to go, don’t you agree? Never again will we see the smiling faces of our beloved friends. Never will we drink those gallons of lost lager ale. The lone survivor of this freak accident is Nelly Eva Hagen, the same young girl who was struck by lightning and hit by a moon rock.” A scattering of applause greeted Ruth’s words. “Let’s count the number of letters in her name.” Without missing a beat, Ruth turned to the easel. “One, two, three,” she said aloud. She finished with “Eleven, twelve, thirteen.” Then she paused dramatically. “As we know, the number thirteen means terribly bad luck. Were you aware that an American president with the initials FDR refused to dine in a group of thirteen?”

“Get this demon out of our midst!” Eugene North yelled from the seventh row. A few puzzled audience members weren’t sure if Eugene was referring to Nelly or Ruth.

“I’d like to say something,” Earl Cronin of Folding Molding shouted. “I’m concerned about the safety of my family. With our winters getting more severe every darn year, don’t you think we have enough to worry about? Let’s expunge Nelly Hagen from the Folding phone directory.” His words were greeted with weak applause.

Hugh Finch, manager of the Folding Home for the Elderly, rose from his seat. “Once every month, Nelly Hagen visits the Folding Home for the Elderly and gives free manicures to our residents. A while ago, Flora Broillet was diagnosed with liver and bone cancer. Twelve tumors. After her very first manicure with Nelly, the tumors started to shrink, and now she’s in remission.”

“Coincidence!” Earl yelled above the buzzing of the crowd. “And if you think it’s anything more than that, you’re an imbecile.”

“She brings bad luck!” Quincy Datz shouted.

“She sure does,” Fritz Warren said, “and methinks it would be best for her to go.”

Heather Edmonds and her lanky husband stood up. “Some of you know that Shane and I have been trying to start a family for years,” she said. “Well, here’s the latest: I recently went to Beauty Oasis for a pedicure with Nelly Hagen, specifically to disguise a painful bunion on my right foot. And now I’m in my first trimester.”

Whoops and cheers greeted the news.

Ruth Grubber’s mouth contorted into a formidable grimace. “You can’t possibly think your fortunate fertilization has anything to do with Nelly’s pedicure, Heather dear.”

“I’m just stating the facts as they happened,” Heather said. “Bunion removal, bun in the oven.”