Her muscles begin to tremble with the tension. After a few more grunts reciprocated by silence, she opens one eye and glances down at the poor thing crushed within her hands, crumpled into a pulp and probably suffering while she stares on in awful wonder. A wave of distress overcomes her. She lessens her grip, drops the dog to the floor, and frantically presses the drum against it, readjusting the steel multiple times across its chest.

Nothing.

With clumsy movements, she picks up the syringe and places the tip of the needle against the dog’s neck. Before she pierces it through, her thumb slips and she prematurely presses on the plunger. The needle wheezes out a stressed hiss. Her ears perk at the sound of it, her sense of urgency diminishing. She looks at the empty glass barrel.

It’s just air.

There is a moment of contemplative pause before she spins, searching. Searching for something else she can use to fill the barrel with, some substance other than air and hope that might be the magical cure hidden in the cracks of her room. But there is nothing within the barren concrete besides her mattress, and surely she can’t shove fabric and foam down the needle.

She frowns, her mouth drooling at the sudden thought of a lollipop: that sweet red candy. Wishing she could melt one down in her mouth and use the liquid as a cure. Knowing how lollipops make her feel: deliciously energized. Maybe the stuffed blue dog would enjoy that. Because she enjoys it. Maybe it would make the dog finally thump. Because it makes her go wild. But it has been a while since she was given a lollipop, and she isn’t sure that if she had one now she would waste its sweet taste on the dog.

On nothing.

She presses her lips together, swishing her tongue inside her mouth, stirring saliva between her cheeks.

A second idea seeps into her head.

She bites down on her tongue. Rivers of saliva pull from the back of her jaw and pool in the center of her mouth. She turns the tip of the needle toward herself and spreads her lips, doing so while keeping the drool from dripping down her chin. She inserts the needle carefully between her lips and pulls on the plunger, allowing the void to suck out her mouth’s contents. A mixture of spit and bubbles fills the barrel with a crackling ooze.

She removes the needle from her mouth. A string of mucus frowns between the syringe and her face then snaps in half. She wipes and redirects her attention to the dog. She sticks the needle in its neck and presses on the plunger. That crackling ooze follows. Gradually, the fabric surrounding the needle darkens. Sticky water leaks from the fibers.

She pulls the needle out, places the syringe down, and presses the drum against it.

Nothing.

She drops the dog with a huff and rests her chin on her hands in thought.