This is where the dramatic story goes—it is that time in the narrative arc when a climax is needed, when the villain must emerge in order to be eradicated. For after the monster comes fully into the light, that threat at the edge of our vision in off-screen space can be understood as awkward, perhaps, not quite as scary as we imagined. Once it is brought to the center of our gaze, the danger can be exposed and disempowered. Once we take its full measure—then we'll attack with whatever odd weapons we'll need to defeat this enemy: pebbles to stave it off, salt water to melt, song to evaporate, truth to subdue, even the more conventional knives and guns to kill. Then there will be drama.

As the green scales emerge from the deep, the townsfolk will recognize the need to come together to thwart what had been previously unseen. Sure, there had been talk for years about the monster hidden in its watery lair and the problem it posed; yes, there had been all those who had gone missing or were found dead, but how was anyone to be certain of the cause if the thing itself remained cloaked? There are so many other daily concerns—lunches to pack, the car that needs servicing, and the exhaustion that leads to flopping down in front of our screens at the end of a too-long day. But those screens give us so many new things to fear; how are we to know to focus our minds on the true monster? Isn't someone else supposed to take care of this?

We need the villain to present itself. We need it to rise and stand out in the open so the danger is unmistakable.

Without an unmasking and a confession, some, like Patrice, who lives in the house at the end of the cul-de-sac, remain uncertain. In her favorite crime show, the confession always makes the conclusion clear. She knows who to cheer for and who to spurn. She wants someone to volunteer, "I am the one. It is I—the horror of your nightmares!" But the villain remains obscure and unnamed. No declaration comes to support the satisfaction of hard, unquestionable justice.

Calvin, who lives on the edge of town, says he is glad there are no torches and pitchforks. Do we want to become the monsters? he asks.

But Curtis, who moved in last year, merely responds, No one is coming to save us.

Disgruntled young people, like Jaxson and Aspen and Sally, knowing they'll face the brunt of what goes unresolved, hang out on street corners. Others worry about gatherings like these, which they tend to mark as "lurking"—a word that is also used to evoke the menace of the shadowy villain. Definitions become intertwined. Teenagers are forced off the streets when curfews are enacted.

From the safety of home, the ponderings and questions turn into discussions over porch railings. At first, this feels productive. There is talk of ways to come together. There is talk and then more talk. Eventually, the mountain of words becomes burdened with other issues, like when Curtis remembers how Patrice reported him for not trimming his ash tree, and Calvin recalls how Sally let her German Shepard run loose on his property. The conversations devolve into a competition. The talking grows to shouting.

Some yell, Life will continue on.

Other call out, Sure, it continues on, until it doesn't.

Without that undeniable, climactic crisis, we remain divided in our houses and in our lives.

At this point some stop talking.

Many are waiting for a reveal on the evening news with blood and storms swirling and a scrolling announcement: "It's too late! Shelter in place!"

We sit, rocking on our porches in chairs our grandfathers left us, peeking out at our neighbors similarly posed. We see the reflective glow of their screens on their cheeks, like the afternoon light off the town's lake. They too are searching for answers, but we wonder what in particular they are studying so closely. We wonder about their intentions. We all sit and wait for some flashing, final announcement, like we wait for the resolution to this story.

.