“Brandon, what the F?” Audrey called out. “Wake up!”

She lit a cigarette and opened the fridge, grabbed a can of Diet Coke. I walked past her into the dining room. A vintage movie poster on foam core was nailed to the yellow wall. Piles of mail littered the table, along with DVDs in paper envelopes. Through the archway I could see the living room and the front window. The smell was terrible.

The couch was missing a cushion. I saw the corner of it on the floor, behind the coffee table, on his Ikea rug with the oversized green and red floral design. Thin hardwood boards ran diagonally, like they made in the twenties. I was wondering, Could this house be that old? as I stepped around the table. Brandon lay on the floor, faceup, wedged between the couch and table, his body twisted. One arm was pinned under him.

“Audrey!” I yelled.

Bad sweetness bloomed off him, filling the room. Vomit had dried on his face and the rug. He wore shorts and scuffed white tennis shoes, with one lace partway undone. I tried to take a breath and retched, gripping the table for support. Bile burned my throat. I vomited on the floor. A chair lay on its side next to me. Had it been that way or had I knocked it over? I took a deep breath but there was no air, only the smell. His body filled my throat, my nose. I retched again and ran, bumping into Audrey.

“Outside,” I gasped, grabbing her arm.

We stumbled through the yard and I leaned against the tree by the fence, far from the house. I squatted down, hunched over, hugged my knees. Audrey stood over me, trying to balance in the yard on her high heels.

“What?” she asked. “Charlotte, you’re freaking me out.”

I gulped air, forced my breath deep and even. The smell was not as strong out here. “He’s dead,” I said, when I could talk.

“No, he’s not,” she said. “Quit it. What’s wrong with you?” She was backing away from me and turning towards the house.

“Audrey, don’t go in there,” I said. She ignored me. I watched her disappear through the kitchen door. She came out a minute later looking white, shaky.

“He’s dead,” she said.

“Yes. We need to call the cops,” I said.

“I don’t know,” she said.

“Yes, that’s what we do.” I was thinking clearly then. “Let’s go to the car. I’ll call Ash, and you . . .” I thought for a minute. “Drugs,” I said. “Weed, coke, whatever you have on you, in your car, you have to get rid of it. We’ll hide it somewhere.”

I stood, took her hand, and led her out of the yard and to the car. Audrey was like a doll whose limbs you had to manually move. She walked slowly alongside me, the cigarette forgotten between her fingers. She was so unresponsive. It was starting to scare me. “It’s going to be okay,” I told her, then repeated it.