A smack of wood. Behind him, across the way, light gashes out of room 9 and across the parking lot. Three figures dart outside and scramble into the Astrovan. From the room, dog barks join the dogmonger’s screams, which are interrupted by a loud, abrupt burst. A few seconds later comes another burst, and then a final figure goes slamming into the Astrovan and slides its rear door shut. The engine chugs to life and the van peels away, barreling down the service road until the brake lights have shrunk down to cinders, then disappear.

Fear swiftly shifts into a violent clarity. A panicked focus activates Henry’s legs and sends him sprinting back to room 8, to Junior, and just as he reaches for the doorknob, the dogmonger staggers out of room 9. The light behind the dogmonger is so bright, it looks like it’s bending him over, both hands squeezing his knee. Henry’s grip tightens around the iron, the cord slicing into his knuckles. The dog-monger steadies himself on the hood of the Mustang, then yells, “You motherfuckers!” to absolutely nobody.

Henry now spots the source of the two loud bursts. The last figure had popped a front tire on both the Neon and the Mustang, their front bumpers now slouching toward each other like a pair of last-call lovers.

At the scrape of key into lock, the dogmonger twists to Henry.

“Yo yo yo, hey buddy, hey neighbor man. Hold up a minute, just a sec. Come here.”

Again, Henry barricades himself between room 8 and the dogmonger, who’s hobbling closer and closer now, irises pinwheeling, the ammonia stink of him even more pungent than before. So close now, the jaw of the shrunken face jitters like a hacksaw.

“Back up,” Henry says.

The dogmonger does the opposite. Another hunchbacked shuffle forward. His eyes yank wide when he tries fastening his jaw into a smile. “Hey, looking slick there. Real sharp, Mr. neighbor buddy. Say now, hey. Say, so I’m a need a favor.”

“I said back up.”

“I’m a need your truck a minute, see.”

“Not. Happening.”

The dogmonger presses himself off his knee, limping upright and closer, now only inches from Henry. The chemistry set stink of him singes Henry’s eyes.

“Make it worth your while.”

“Back up.”

The dogmonger’s voice lowers. “Give me them keys, bitch.”

The rest of the dogmonger’s body is sawing like his chin. Stench and loathing are boring a crater square into Henry’s forehead. The drilling churns all his marrow and gore, heating him, ratcheting his grip around the iron. For whatever reason, Lucius slashes through his thoughts.

“Let’s not get nasty. You don’t want that. Your boy don’t want tha—”

“You don’t talk about my son,” Henry barks. “Now back the fuck up.”

The dogmonger steps back. Shrugs.

“Hey, fine,” he says. “Okay. All right.”

Then, turning, the dogmonger reaches for something in his pants. Henry snaps.