My sleepiness switched to cold panic. “Why I am here? What are you doing?” And what was that smell? Dog breath was like a bouquet of gardenias compared to what I was inhaling now. Piss. Lots of piss. And shit.

“I am stirring some ice into tomato juice for you. Good for a hangover.” He held out a glass of something red and creamy. His eyes were watery, slightly yellow, and his mouth was a straight line surrounded by patches of hair. He needed a shave.

“I’m not hungover,” I said, without considering it. Was I? My mouth was dry. I felt fine, minus the thirst, panic, and my throbbing hand. No way was I drinking anything he offered. Not with how foul the room smelled. “Thanks for the offer, but I’ll pass.” The dog licked my pants at the knee, and I jerked away.

Tracy laughed. “Who doesn’t like a golden retriever?”

“Me.”

“Pardon me, but that’s kind of creepy. Did you get attacked by a dog? Come here, Rosy.” Rosy.

“My mom fed stray dogs and cats so they were always lurking in our yard. She fed them, pet them, nuzzled them, but neglected her own kids. My annoyance stuck.” And, had he just called me creepy?

“Oh, I’m sorry about that.” He sounded truly sorry, which made me feel even more awkward. He set the tomato concoction down on an end table to my left. It was crowded with a strange medley of items. Rubbing alcohol, cotton balls, a handheld centipede game, four plastic water bottles, a hunting knife, and a cylinder of what looked like… baby formula? Beyond the table, the floor was strewn with newspaper and empty water bottles. Jesus, it really did smell like shit in here.

“Well, Heather Bishop, you might not have gotten drunk, but you were on something.” He stood in front of me, hands on hips.

Mushrooms. That’s right. Desiree gave me mushrooms.

To my right, unfinished wood stairs led up. Bolt cutters lay on the floor near the bottom stair. I wanted to be home already, but he was blocking my way. “Your hand was bleeding so I cleaned it,” he said.

“Oh, thanks. I was wondering.” I glanced at my wrapped hand. “I’d like to go now,” I said, and hated the weakness in my voice. I wasn’t really scared of Tracy Summers, was I? Except he was blocking me. And also, why was I in his basement?

“Of course,” he said, backing out of my way.

As if on cue, and as if this were a circus, a furry critter pranced clumsily down the stairs, its furry paws far too large for its body.