“Buddy, look out!” Elliot yells.

But it’s no use. Thwap! Herman drills Jackson in the skull. Jackson doesn’t even have time to look up. He crumples, knocked out cold.

“No!” I cry, tugging frantically at my leg, but no matter how hard I strain, my foot won’t budge. Helplessly, I watch as Herman pulls a wheelbarrow from the garden and drags Jackson by his feet, heaving him into the wheelbarrow. He begins rolling Jackson back up the driveway towards the house.

Wriggling, I pull on my leg. Elliot examines the upholstery of the car. “Ange, the seat,” Elliot says. “Can you…? If you move it…”

I reach out my hand, now pockmarked with blood from the shattered glass. Bending forward, fingers splayed, I strain for the lever on the front seat. “It’s too far,” I say.

“Here. Maybe…” He shifts his body in the seat, wincing as he tries to move his ankle. “Ow, ow, ow. Hang on.” He thrusts his arm out. “Aghhhh!”

Slick with blood, his fingers tease the lever. He grips the plastic, but then his hand slips. He tries again, finding a firmer grip and pulling hard. Thwunk. The seat shifts forward, freeing my leg. Aching pain shoots up my thigh. I hold my calf with my hands, trying to stop the searing sensation.

Elliot flops back, catching his breath and sucking in through his teeth. Finally free, I look up at the house. It looms over the yard like a dark beast. Elliot hands me the carving knife.

“Help your brother,” he says. Trembling, I take the knife. Elliot puts his bloody hand on mine. I know it’s morbid, but it’s actually kind of comforting. Meeting his gaze, he forces a weary smile. “You’re a tough chick. Something else I’ve always dug about you.”

I climb over the driver’s seat, sliding out the open door. In the wet grass, rain cascades down. I hobble to my feet, but then a snarling black thing pushes into me. That beast of a German Shepherd.

It lunges and grabs my arm, wrenching me to the ground. The knife flops into the grass. The dog’s canines sink deep in my arm. “Get off! Let go!” I flail, swatting at the dog’s face. Turning my head away, I see the knife lying on the grass a few feet away.

The dog tugs me back as I strain to reach for the knife handle, fingers splayed. Growling, the dog wrestles my arm. The further I reach, the more I feel my arm being shredding.