As for the police, obviously they hadn't come in the last day, or if they had, they were a shoddy bunch. I'd been asleep in an open closet. Surely, they would have stumbled upon me and I would have awoken in jail, possibly already having undergone my first round of sodomy. So I’m altogether surprised to find the woman in the same place I'd last seen her. As for the state of her, that is an entirely different story. The condition of the body is a far cry from what I'd seen just a day earlier. Beneath a steady swarm of insects, the woman's body is decomposing. It smells of sulfur and it is intolerable. The smell twenty-four hours earlier was of fresh linen comparatively.

I gag and retreat back into the main house.

It is 3:04.

I make my way into the kitchen and once again slink my hand into my sweatshirt and open the refrigerator. Grabbing two string cheeses, I open one and slowly begin checking drawers. I am looking for mail. Or something with the woman's name on it. But there are no electric bills, no catalogs, not a single trace of her identity. No wallet, no White House press pass, no steamy letters from Connor Sullivan.

I spend another five minutes poking around, then decide I've already pushed my luck and head for the front door. Thinking better of it, I make my way through the living room and to a sliding glass door that leads to a small back patio. Sliding the door closed, I give one last glance behind me.

Cat is staring at me through the glass door.

Meow.

"What?"

Meow.

"Sorry, I'm more of dog guy."

Meow.

"I don't know, go drink out of the toilet."

Meow.

"There's plenty of string cheese in the fridge."

Meow.

"Fine."

I quickly open the door and Cat jumps into my arms.

It is 3:13 when we get back to my place.

I am just as thirsty as Cat and I drink three glasses of water. I grab a sandwich and shake for me and open a can of tuna for Cat. He takes another couple laps of water from the bowl I set down then makes his way to the food and starts lick-eating it, like they do. I lean down and check his neck, but he doesn't have a collar.

"Well, I can't be calling you Cat, now can I?"

I think back to how he'd directed me to the garage door and say, "Just like when Timmy fell in the well."

Lassie.

He looks up and nods, almost if to say, “Works for me.”

"Well, Lassie, I hate to tell you this because I know you are a staunch, right-wing conservative, but your mom was killed by the President of the United States. This is what happens when we elect Republicans."

He licks himself in response.