She turned back blindly toward the hall that led to the cellar.

“Victor,” she said, tears welling. “What did you see down there?”

The dog was still. He was breathing hard. Too hard.

“Victor?”

She rose and stepped away from him.

“Victor. I’m just stepping over here. I’m going to look for some microphones.”

A part of her started dying. It felt like she was the one going mad. She thought of Jules. Jules who loved this dog more than he loved himself.

This dog was her very last link to the housemates.

A torturous growl escaped him. It was a sound she’d never heard from him. Not from any dog on Earth.

“Victor. I’m sorry we came here. I’m so sorry.”

The dog moved violently and Malorie thought he’d broken free. The wood post splintered.

Victor barked.

Malorie, backing up, felt something, a riser of some kind, behind her tired knees.

“Victor, no. Please. I’m so sorry.”

The dog swung his body, knocking into a table.

“Oh God! VICTOR! Stop growling! Stop! Please!”

But Victor couldn’t stop.

Malorie felt along the carpeted riser behind her. She crawled onto it, afraid to turn her back on what Victor had seen. Huddled and shaking, she listened to the dog go mad. The sound of him pissing. The sound of his teeth snapping as he bit the empty air.

Malorie shrieked. She instinctively reached for a tool, a weapon, and found her hands gripping the steel of some kind of small post

Slowly, she rose, feeling along the length of the steel.

Victor bit the air. He snapped again. It sounded like his teeth were cracking.

At the top of the steel rod, Malorie’s fingers encircled a short, oblong object. At its end, she felt something like steel netting.

She gasped.

She was on the stage. And she was holding what she had come for. She was holding a microphone.

She heard Victor’s bone pop. His fur and flesh had ripped.

“Victor!”

She pocketed the microphone and dropped to her knees.

Kill him, she thought.

But she couldn’t.

Manically, she searched the stage. Behind her, it sounded like Victor had chewed through his own leg.

Your body is broken. Victor is dying. But there are two babies in boxes at home. They need you, Malorie. They need you they need you they need you.

Tears saturated and then spilled out through her blindfold. Her breath came in gasping heaves. On her knees, she followed a wire to a small square object at the far end of the stage. She discovered three more cords, leading to three more microphones.

Victor made a sound no dog should make. He sounded almost human in his despair. Malorie gathered everything she could.

The amplifiers, small enough to carry. The microphones. The cords. A stand.

“I’m sorry, Victor. I’m so sorry, Victor. I’m sorry.”

When she rose, she thought her body couldn’t take it. She believed that if she had one ounce less of strength, she’d fall down forever. Yet, she stood. As Victor continued to struggle, Malorie felt her way with her back against the wall. At last, she stepped down from the stage.

Victor saw something. Where was it now?

There was no stopping the tears. Yet, a stronger feeling took over: a precious calm. Motherhood. As if she were a stranger to herself, operating for the babies alone.

Crossing the bar, she came close enough to Victor to feel some part of him rub against her leg. Was it his side? His snout? Was he saying good-bye? Or had he thrown her his tongue?

Continuing through the bar, Malorie made it back to where they’d come in. The open cellar door was near. But she didn’t know where.

“STAY AWAY FROM ME! STAY AWAY FROM ME!”

Struggling to carry the gear, Malorie stepped once and felt no ground beneath her shoe.

She lost her balance.

She almost fell.

And she righted herself.

Her voice sounded like a stranger’s as she screamed before exiting the bar.

The sun was hot against her skin.

She moved quickly, back toward the car.

Her thoughts were electric. Events were happening too fast. She slipped off the concrete curb and smacked hard into the car. Frantic, she loaded the things in the back hurriedly. When she got behind the wheel, she wailed.

The cruelty. This world. Victor.

She had the key in the ignition and was about to turn it.

Then, her black hair wet with sweat, she paused.

What were the chances something had gotten into the car? What were the chances something was seated beside her in the passenger seat?

If something had, she’d be delivering it to the children.

To get home, she told herself (even the voice in her mind quivered; even the voice in her mind sounded like it was crying), you absolutely have to look at the odometer.

She flailed blindly about the car, her arms smacking the dashboard wildly, hitting the roof, thrashing against the windows.

She tore her blindfold off.

She saw the black windshield. She was alone in the car.

Using the odometer, she drove the same two and a half miles back, then four to Shillingham, then a quarter mile more to home, hitting every curb and sign on the way. Only five miles an hour; it felt like eternity.

After parking, she gathered what she’d found. Inside, the door secure behind her, she opened her eyes and rushed to the babies’ bedroom.

They were awake. Red faced. Crying. Hungry.

Much later she lay awake shaking on the dank kitchen floor. Staring at the microphones and two small amplifiers beside her, remembering the sounds Victor made.

Dogs are not immune. Dogs can go mad. Dogs are not immune.

And whenever she thought she was going to stop crying, she started again.

thirty-four

Malorie is in the upstairs bathroom. It is late and the house is silent. The housemates are sleeping.

She is thinking of Gary’s briefcase.

Tom told her to be more of a leader in his absence. But the briefcase is bothering her. Just like Don’s sudden interest in Gary bothers her. Just like everything Gary says in his grandiose, artificial way.

Snooping is wrong. When people are forced to live together, their privacy is essential. But isn’t this her duty? In Tom’s absence, isn’t it up to her to find out if her feelings are right?

Malorie turns her ear to the hall. There is no movement in the house. Exiting the bathroom, she turns toward Cheryl’s room and sees the shape of her body, resting. Peering into Olympia’s room, she hears her softly snoring. Quietly, Malorie descends the stairs, her hand on the railing.

She goes to the kitchen and turns the light on over the stove. It is dim and hums softly. But it’s enough. Entering the living room, Malorie sees Victor’s eyes looking back at her. Felix is asleep on the couch. The space on the floor usually occupied by Tom is vacant.

Passing through the kitchen, she approaches the dining room. The stove’s muted light reaches just far enough so that she can see Gary’s body lying on the floor. He’s on his back, asleep.

She thinks.

The briefcase leans against the wall, within arm’s reach of his body.

Softly, Malorie treads across the dining room. Floorboards creak under her weight. She stops and stares intently at his bearded, gaping mouth. He wheezes a bit, steady and slow. Holding her breath, she takes a final step toward him and stops. Hovering above him, she watches closely without moving.

She kneels.

Gary snorts. Her heart flutters. She waits.

To get the briefcase she must reach across his chest. Her arm dangles inches from his shirt as he slumbers. Her fingers grasp the handle when he snorts again. She turns.

He is staring at her.

Malorie freezes. She scans both of his eyes.

She exhales softly. His eyes are not open. Shadows fooled her.