It takes me a few seconds to match the discrepancy between Cindy’s voice and the horror scene I’ve dropped into, and even longer to remember I’ve left her alone in a house full of the animals who did this.

“Marley, I fell.”

“It’s okay, Cindy.” I glance at my own knee, the trickle of blood running down my shin, and glare angrily at the room. “Don’t move. I’ll be right there.”

“I’m outside.” Laughter and cheers swell somewhere behind her.

“Okay.” I stare at the sawed-off staircase and realize suddenly I don’t know how the hell I’m going to get out of here. “I’ll find you,” I tell her.

There are footsteps in the kitchen. Dark shadows break the slit of light under the door. I hang up and hold my breath. The door opens a fraction, a tall figure backlit, but then slams. I squeeze the padlocks in my hand. At least, I think, they can’t lock me down here. But then I hear it, the sound of something being pushed across the floor. The light behind the door vanishes.

Shit, I think. Shit. Shit. Shit.

I let my flashlight trace the outline of the room again, moving from the walls inward. I don’t discover anything new, and my flashlight circles back to the buckets in the corner.

This time the girls turn when I emerge from the basement.

“What’s that smell?” the standing one asks. Never mind the footstool that my kick sent flying across the kitchen. Her hula skirt’s fallen around her ankles, so she’s in only her swimsuit. The one leaning over the sink vomits.

“Don’t go down there,” I tell them.

The footstool was so light, it couldn’t have been intended to block me in. And, I tell myself, nobody could have seen me standing in the dark. Someone must have noticed the locks missing and dragged it there to keep wandering guests from falling down the sawed-off steps. As if that’s all the basement was—a safety hazard.

I walk through the house in a daze. Someone hands me a drink and I swallow it. The blow-up floats have started to deflate and sink in on themselves. The yells have turned lazy, perfunctory. I see violence everywhere. Mouths open, gleaming white teeth. Cheers melting into screams. The whole scene—pale, half-naked bodies churning out of dark shadows, red cushions, and carnivalesque animals—reminds me of that Delacroix painting—The Death of Sarda-something.

Outside, a couple of guys are sitting in a blow-up pool. One would think they’d be freezing, but they look content and hot-blooded, and I wonder if they took part in what happened downstairs. I gaze at my feet and consider sticking them in the pool.

Instead, I walk to the green hose pulsing water onto the lawn and shoot cold blasts down my legs, around my ankles, and between my toes.