I nodded. “Yes, the book,” I said. The one you’re reading now.

“And what happened?”

I wasn’t ready to go there, yet. “She survived.”

But reading it had brought us here.

Cassie leaned in and I pulled her close. I could feel her heart beating against my chest. “Goddamn the shit we’ve been through,” she said. Several retorts came to mind and I left them there, not knowing if she was talking about today, the past few years, or our entire lives.

“Where’s this bedroom?” I said. I followed her back through the hallway, careful to avoid the splintered floor planks. I saw a spider in a corner web that could ensnare a pigeon. Was surprised I hadn’t seen any snakes, but knew they had to be around. Malia and her little pets that she had unleashed on me in the culvert. The hallway was canted to the side like at a Fun House. But there was nothing fun about this house. I felt the itch of a mosquito bite on the back of my knee and it brought to mind a line Cassie used to quote from the Dalai Lama, ‘If you think you are too small to make a difference, try sleeping with a mosquito.’ Meanwhile, the only Dalai Lama quote I know comes from Caddyshack.

The walls were wood paneled. Moldy and warped. Cassie stopped three quarters of the way down the hallway and stood before a splotch of mold that resembled a spray of buckshot. She placed four fingers against a configuration of mold splatter and pushed. The dark notches sunk into the wall with a click and a door-sized panel opened along one of the seams.

“I watched the lady do this when she brought us here,” she said.

“That’s actually pretty cool,” I said, because it was. Appreciate whatever momentary joys you can find in this hell. We entered into a cozy room like you’d expect at a rustic bed and breakfast. Four-post queen-size bed with mosquito netting and a frosted dome light overhead. An antique Persian rug on the polished oak floor. A framed mirror that I wanted to throw the fuck out, and twin bedside tables holding large bottles of Mountain Spring water and an assortment of homemade granola bars wrapped in cellophane. I didn’t give two shits if the water was poisoned. It would almost be a relief if it were. I uncapped one of the bottles and guzzled down a quarter-liter of cool, clean water. The room back here was windowless and more temperate, somehow. I moaned a bit as the water splashed in my stomach, not realizing how dehydrated I had become. I ripped open the cellophane on one of the granola bars and took a bite. I tasted honey, roasted almond, chocolate, and fresh cherry. I moaned some more.