Wednesday, October 26, 1960 — Point Place, Wisconsin
(Pre-Series • Monica age 2)
October changed the town fast.
The air got colder. The sky got lower. The trees went from green to yellow to bare in a matter of weeks, and every yard suddenly had a pile of leaves that made Red mutter about "lazy neighbors."
Kitty started lighting candles in the evenings. The house smelled like apple peel and warm sugar and whatever scent Kitty thought made things feel safe.
Halloween decorations began appearing in windows—paper ghosts, little pumpkins, fake cobwebs. Laurie loved them. Laurie loved anything that felt like a performance.
Eric was five months old now. He had fat cheeks and bright eyes and a way of grabbing Kitty's finger that made her eyes shine. He could laugh—real little bursts of joy that made Kitty laugh too, and even made Red's mouth twitch like he might smile if he didn't think anyone would see.
Monica watched it all, absorbing.
Then the foreshadow arrived the way foreshadow always arrived in small towns:
in the mail.
Kitty stood at the kitchen counter sorting letters—bills, church flyers, catalogues. Red's shoulders tightened at every envelope that looked official.
"Anything important?" Red asked, voice flat.
Kitty smiled too brightly. "Just bills."
Red grunted like bills were an insult.
Laurie snatched a colorful catalogue off the counter and began flipping pages like she was searching for something to demand.
Monica, quiet as always, watched Kitty's hands.
Kitty paused on a glossy magazine—women's fashion, hair, home.
She frowned thoughtfully. "Oh…"
Red's eyes narrowed. "Oh what."
Kitty laughed nervously. "Nothing. It's just—look at this hairstyle."
Red made a sound like he didn't want to. "Kitty—"
Kitty held up the magazine anyway, excited despite herself. "Isn't it pretty?"
Red glanced, then scoffed immediately. "Looks like a bird built a nest on her head."
Kitty's laugh cracked. "Red!"
Monica stared at the picture.
A woman with hair shaped higher than what Point Place women wore now—structured, polished, deliberate.
Not yet the full future Monica knew was coming, but the start of it.
The direction.
The shift.
Monica's heart kicked.
Because Monica could see the timeline of style like a road map.
She could see what would hit big in a few years.
She could see which girls would be admired, which women would get called "too much," which towns would resist, which would pretend they didn't care while copying anyway.
She could see how hair was never just hair.
Hair was class. Hair was rebellion. Hair was power.
Kitty set the magazine down with a sigh. "I don't know. I just think it's nice to see something new."
Red's jaw tightened. "You don't need 'new.' You need practical."
Kitty's eyes flashed—then softened. "Red, it's just hair."
Red muttered, "Hair is money."
Monica froze.
Red didn't even realize what he'd admitted:
He was thinking about money all the time.
The plant talk. The fear. The tightening.
Everything was becoming money.
Kitty gathered the mail again. "I'm going to make stew."
Red grunted approval—stew meant winter, winter meant predictability.
Laurie, bored, slammed the catalogue shut and tossed it onto the floor.
Monica stared at the discarded magazine.
And her mind made a decision.
If she couldn't act on the future yet, she could still collect it.
Store it.
Protect it.
Build it.
Just like she'd started with her pennies.
That evening, after dinner, after Eric fussed and Kitty rocked him, after Laurie got sent to bed for screaming because she didn't want to wear pajamas—
Monica waited.
She waited until Kitty's laughter faded upstairs as she soothed Eric.
She waited until Red's footsteps moved into the living room and the newspaper opened with that familiar crackle.
Then Monica moved quietly.
She toddled into the kitchen, heart pounding like she was committing a crime.
She grabbed the magazine from the counter.
It was too big for her hands, but she managed, hugging it to her chest.
She carried it down the hallway like contraband.
In the closet—behind the towels—her Future Box waited.
Monica dragged it out, sat on the floor, and opened it.
The pennies glinted dull in the dim light.
The folded scrap from before sat tucked at the bottom.
Monica added the new magazine page—careful, folded small, the hairstyle picture hidden like a secret spell.
Then she did something else—something riskier.
Monica found a pencil stub again—one Red had left on the end table.
She couldn't write full sentences without raising questions.
But she could write symbols.
She could write reminders only she would understand.
On a small scrap of paper, Monica drew:
•a circle (for a head)
•a tall swoop above it (for the hairstyle)
•a small arrow forward (for "later")
Then, beneath that, she drew:
•a stack of rectangles (books)
•a tiny coin beside it (money)
•another arrow forward
Not language.
Not yet.
Just a code.
A toddler's scribble to anyone else.
A roadmap to Monica.
She tucked it into the box.
Then she listened.
Silence.
No footsteps.
No Kitty.
No Laurie.
No Red.
Monica exhaled, relief flooding her body.
Then she added one more thing: a small shiny button she'd found in the junk drawer earlier—something pretty, something "valuable" in toddler terms.
Because it wasn't really about the money in the box.
Not yet.
It was about the habit:
Save. Store. Prepare.
Monica closed the box and slid it back behind the towels.
As she stood, her gaze drifted to the living room doorway.
Red sat in his chair, newspaper in hand.
But his eyes weren't on the paper.
His eyes were on Monica.
Monica's blood went cold.
Had he seen?
Had he heard?
Red's expression was unreadable—hard as usual, but with that sharp focus that made Monica feel like he could see through walls.
Monica reacted instantly—toddler performance.
She widened her eyes, let her mouth slack slightly, and babbled a soft nonsense sound like she'd simply wandered.
Red stared for a beat longer.
Then he grunted. "Go to bed."
Monica nodded quickly and toddled toward the hallway, exaggeratedly clumsy, dragging her feet the way kids did when they didn't want to.
Red's voice followed—rough, low, almost affectionate. "Good girl."
Monica didn't turn around.
She didn't let her face change until she was in her room and the door was closed.
Then she sat on her bed in the dim light, heart hammering.
Because this was the tightrope.
This was what Monica meant when she said foreshadow.
Not just future hair.
Not just future books.
Not just future money.
Foreshadow was the feeling of being watched.
Of being measured.
Of knowing one wrong move could turn "quiet and good" into "strange" and "concerning" and "what's wrong with that child?"
Monica lay down, pulled the blanket up, and stared at the ceiling.
Act normal.
Stay small.
Store everything.
And never, ever forget:
Point Place didn't forgive girls for being ahead of their time.
So Monica would be ahead anyway—
just quietly enough that nobody noticed until it was too late to stop her.