Gina had finally managed to get her back up against the wall, passing out from the pain and the effort at the end of the process. The rain hitting her face brought her back to reality.

There is no soft autumn rain in Southern California. The rain comes with a vengeance, an angry payback from Mother Nature for months of cloudless skies. The rickety doors far above Gina’s head were meager protection from the storm.

She needed something to cover herself to keep from getting soaked. The temperature had dropped. She was cold and, she supposed, in shock—although she didn’t exactly know what that meant. Biology had never been her strong suit.

What she did know was that she was sitting in the midst of a garbage heap with garbage bags all around her. Most of them had been torn by the rats that were now beginning to emerge from below and from holes in the walls. Too dark to see now, Gina could hear the rustling, the intermittent squeaks. Her skin was crawling and fear was like a writhing thing in her throat and stomach.

Fighting tears, she felt around on her right side and got hold of a plastic bag with her good hand. It was only partially full of garbage, but stinking enough to make her gag, and it seemed to take forever to work one of the tears open enough to empty it.

She screamed as mice fell from it with the trash. It seemed like dozens of them raining down, screeching, and running, scrambling over her body, her arms, her legs, her chest.

Hysterical, she dropped the bag and swatted at them with her good hand, sure they were going inside her clothes and tangling in her hair. Her body jerked and twisted, setting off explosions of pain. The sounds of rodents squealing and scurrying seemed amplified in the confined space of the well, echoing up the shaft and filling her ears, filling her head.

Oh my God. What did I ever do to deserve this?

Shut up, Gina. Stop feeling sorry for yourself. You’re not dead.

Marissa’s voice.

I’m going crazy, she thought, whimpering.

No, you aren’t. Get the bag and cover yourself or you’ll die from hypothermia.

I’ll cry if I want to.

Crying will only make you look bad.

Gina felt around and grabbed the empty bag. Holding her breath against the stench, she put the thing over her head and did her best to arrange it around her shoulders.

She tipped her head back and opened her mouth, catching the raindrops, the first clean drink she had had in more than twenty-four hours.