The ooky factor rose in me again, so I decided to run off my tension. When I went into the night, I made a game of seeing how fast I could dart around rocks. “I’m a superhero!” I said to myself as I leaped over a boulder.

After several laps, I stopped to tend the grave on the far side of the property. I pulled weeds and found rocks to add to the mound. “Daisy,” I said, trying out the name. “My dog, Daisy.”

A flash of memory came, an image of a furry dog with golden eyes peering over the edge of a bed at me. Then it was gone, leaving me with a pang, a yearning.

I practiced saying “Daisy” again, but nothing happened. When I turned back toward the house, I noticed the open door of the barn. Maybe seeing other animals would help jar my memory.

I hadn’t visited the barn before, but I’d heard the Grant family talk about Ernesto, the ranch hand who had an apartment at the front of the barn. As I walked into the structure, the rich animal smells came to me.

Stalls ran on both sides and cats prowled atop bales of hay and on rafters. Cats everywhere … and they reminded me of something.

A bay horse swung his huge head over a stall door, startling me. “Hey, horsey,” I said softly.

Just then I heard a woman’s laugh. It came from farther down the barn. I listened and heard the murmur of voices. I crept to a stall with light eeking out from beneath the door.

I swung it open and saw the Grant family in armchairs in a comfortable room. A beautiful Oriental carpet was on the hardwood floor and sconces cast warm, diffused light.

At a sideboard, a compact, muscled Latino dude was pouring drinks into wineglasses.

“Aha!” I cried.

Mrs. Grant looked at Oswald. “I told you she’d show up. You owe me a quart of Madagascar vanilla.”

“Hi, Milagro,” Gabriel said.

“I can’t believe that you’d leave me out of … what is this?”

A delicious coppery tang scented the air and I saw the dark red color of my companions’ drinks.

“It’s blood. You’re drinking blood.” Some things that we do in private, such as snacking on raw steaks, seem much more freaky in group settings. My craving for the drink conquered any ambivalence.

Oswald, his hair still wet from swimming, said, “Let me explain.”

I gave him a haughty look. “I’m not some unsophisticated rube. In fact, I’ve eaten fried brains at an Italian restaurant and I loved my grandmother’s menudo, which is a soup made with tripe.”

“Hey, mamacita,” the Latino guy said. “I heard you forgot everything. I’m Ernie. Want a drink? It’s the usual, lamb, raised on new grass.”

“Nice to meet you again, Ernesto. That sounds very intriguing. I think I will try it.”