I open the back compartment, a sliver of a girl in me hoping to find something embarrassing, something silly, to fling into Teddy’s face and get us back to the jokey, convivial state we were in earlier, at least until I can get away.

But when I pull the wood back, what I see knocks the air out of me, sends the shag-carpeted floor into another, distant, blackened reality, and my knees give out, so I fall into the armoire.

Why did you think that anything hidden in the dark would be good and safe?

Every nerve in my body crawls as I wheeze for air, as my vision pinholes.

I’m in the apartment of a man who preserves everything, from a decade-old Jigglypuff costume to … this.

Gray cashmere, neatly folded. I feel it in my sweating palm, the edge of a rusty smear brushing off in flakes. And then, behind it: navy-blue ballet flats, a complete set of two shoes. And one pair of blush-pink calfskin gloves, the pearl buttons at their wrists winking in the dark.

I stagger back and fall to my knees, throwing up all over the pink bed. I wipe my mouth, and my face is hot and cold, every nerve short-circuiting. I scramble to stuff a glove into my bra, all that I can fit, fingers bloodless, my vision patchy now.

I need to go.

This poison rushes up my throat, killing healthy stretches of flesh, and I need air, need air, need air, and I tense every muscle before opening the door a crack to peer out into the dark.

Ahh, says the door, exhaling with relief.

A set of eyes, black as night ponds, stare back at me.

As I scream, a warm hand is pressed over my mouth. I’m pushed back into the room, smelling rose and my own vomit. The door is locked again, and the hand removed. That’s when I recognize her.

“Antella.”

She’s wearing a gingham shirt, a lilac tiger-embroidered sweater over her shoulders, and khaki pants with a weird tool belt that holds … gardening shears? My eyes boggle at them. The leather handle, stitched with AA. Like, Alcoholics Anonymous. Antella Anonymous? The weirdness of it all shocks me into breathing normally.

I throw up again, an inch from her candy-colored Chanel flats.