I try to watch Game of Thrones, but I can't remember what has happened in the previous episodes and I feel lost. What happened to the Kingslayer's hand? Although it has been nearly twenty-four hours since my harrowing chase and physically my body has recovered from the fight or flight-endorphin release, my brain has not. I feel sluggish, my synapses delayed and unresponsive.

At 3:42, I give up and lie down on my bed.

For the first time I can ever remember, I fall asleep on my own.

…

The next few days pass in relative monotony. I have made a couple small tweaks, as I have decided never to venture outside again, and I run on my new treadmill that I'd had overnighted and delivered (the days of leaving my door unlocked are in the past and I had Isabel meet the delivery people and let them in). Anyhow, the treadmill is the latest and greatest, and there is a screen that shows where you are running. You can run the Appalachian Trail, the streets of Boston, the beaches of San Diego, or even the nearby Potomac.

I mean, who needs to go outside, am I right?

It's my fifth day on the treadmill, and I opt for a little run down the streets of DC. The White House looms in the background and I flip it off.

I've run 2.43 miles when I hear a noise.

I jerk my head toward the door, my eyes scanning to see if the regular security lock, and the Ideal Security Heavy Duty lock I'd had installed are both latched. They are.

I continue running.

At 2.51 miles, I hear it again.

I jump off the treadmill and tiptoe to the door and gaze through the peephole. Nothing.

Was I hearing things?

Two steps back toward the treadmill and I hear it again. I again press my eye to the peephole. Again, nothing.

I unlatch both locks and gently ease the door open.

Meow.

“LASSSSSSSSSSSSSIE!”

He jumps into my arms.

I hold him up high, my cheeks cramping I'm smiling so hard. “BUDDDY! . . . WHERE DID YOU G—DUDE! WHAT HAPPENED TO YOU?”

Lassie is a bloody mess. He has a huge cut on his belly, a bite out of his ear, and one of his eyes is swollen shut. I swear he is smirking as if to say, “You should see the other five guys.”

I set him on the table and go to work on him with a warm cloth. He winces as I touch him, but altogether he's a pretty good sport.

I'd been so happy to see him and so overwhelmed by his many cuts that I'd failed to notice he smelled something awful.

“Dude, did you pick a fight with a skunk?”

Meow.

“What are these?” I pull out two spines from his butt. Porcupine spikes.

“Dude, did you pick a fight with a skunk and a porcupine?”

Meow.

I am laughing uncontrollably and hug him tight.

He winces.

“Sorry, buddy.”