Don’t drive drowsy, Paul used to say. It’s as bad as driving drunk. “Yes, please.”

As we climb in, I glance down at my sleeve, which is stained dark red with blood. I melt into the passenger seat as Emmaline settles in my lap and Trey starts the car. “Trey?”

“Yeah?”

“You’re pretty brave too.”

His hands on the steering wheel tighten. “Thanks.”

We pull up to a detached garage behind a giant, three-story brick Victorian with a gray slate roof. “Wait here,” Trey says. “I’ll be right back.”

He grabs the tire iron as he steps from the car, then he disappears beyond the garage. Glass shatters, and Emmaline tries to leap from my lap out the open door, but I hold her back.

A few minutes later, Trey returns. He’s limping from the injury to his thigh, but a huge grin splits his face. “It’s empty,” he says. “No bodies.”

I bang my shin against the door panel in my rush. Dizziness threatens to put me on the ground again, and I’m forced to slow down as we circle the garage and navigate the winding path of the tiny backyard. We step inside the house, and I vaguely register granite and stainless steel and shiny wood floors as Trey leads me into a small bedroom with a queen-sized bed. “Lie down,” he orders. “I’ll bring you some food and water and take a look at that shoulder.”

I’m asleep before he returns.

March 20

I WAKE TO WARMTH AND THE SCENT OF WOODSMOKE. LONG, ochre-colored velvet curtains cover the windows, but sunshine pours through a transom above the bedroom door. The ceiling is a fleur-de-lis pattern of pressed tin, painted off-white. I’m nestled in a thick down comforter, surrounded by jewel-toned decorative pillows. On the nightstand beside me is a bottled water and a plate full of blue corn tortilla chips.

The bed creaks as I rise, and a split second later comes the clatter of claws on the floor, then a scritch-scritch-scritch at the bedroom door. “Coming, Emmy,” I call out, and she responds with a little yip.

I reach over to grab the bottled water and realize my shoulder is thickly bandaged. I roll my arm experimentally. No more numbness, but it aches a little. I take a swig of water and shove a few corn chips into my mouth, then I pad over to the door and crack it open. Emmaline plunges inside and runs circles around my ankles. “Up-up, Emmy,” I say, and she jumps into my arms. I snug her tight while she laps at my face.

I set her down and head into the hallway, following the scent of burning wood until I reach a large living room with plush couches and a massive flat-screen television. Another scent pricks at my nose: coffee.