The dog led me into a shadowy region between rows of shelves that held boxes. The boxes were unmarked, identical, gray, taped shut. Water dripped loudly around us, and some was collected in pools on the uneven floor. We splashed through. Gunner sniffed at boxes stacked on the lower shelves. His nose led him down the aisle of boxes. Together we stalked along. The narrow and damp passageway became darker and darker, and it seemed—though of course this could not have been the case; there were no stairs here—that the dog and I were descending into another realm of the library, going down through some old, forgotten tunnel that took us below and away from the lively center of things. In fact, no place in the red library is terribly distant from any other. Nor are there tunnels. This was a sensory illusion and it meant that I was about to undergo a panic attack. The noises of running men came from all around, a crashing riot that caused the dog to whimper and me to sweat. I could feel the floor vibrate as my brothers’ feet sped by on the other side of the boxes. From behind us and from up ahead came mysterious, threatening sounds, little scuffs and bumps—as if men were sneaking up to bushwhack us, or searching out dark alcoves, hidden places for a person to lean back, stand very still, and wait before jumping out. I was sure I could hear breathing. This may have been water, dripping. Dust covered dry stretches of floor and I saw that the dog and I were leaving paw- and footprints, a wet trail. I knelt and used the blue pillow to sweep the floor and erase tracks. The dust floated up. Ours were not the only prints visible on the floor. Someone wearing large shoes, size twelve or, possibly, thirteen, had passed this way. Falling water got louder as we walked along; and the air felt still and close; and the whole tunnel sensation grew acute. I felt entombed. Shelf after shelf of unlabeled boxes walled our passageway; and of course Gunner halted, from time to time, to sniff one. I whispered to him, “Gunner, we don’t have time for that now,” and remarkably, this dog seemed to understand. He abandoned the boxes and trotted ahead, claws clicking against the floor. Could the claws be heard at a distance? It did appear, from the economy and gentleness of the dog’s movements, that, in spite of claws, Gunner was trying his best to avoid making noise. Brothers hunting in packs yelled to one another, and I was glad under the circumstances to have an animal helper. I whispered, “Go find the African masks,” and Gunner stared at me blankly.