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lockjaw when I can easily take you to the doctor. We could grab something to eat afterward.”
    Oh God oh God, I think I just asked Lisa out. But just as she opens her mouth to respond, my dear friend Nate chimes in.
    “That is a nasty scratch you got there. I have Band-Aids. And Neosporin.”
    Lisa gives him a look. “You have Band-Aids, Neosporin, a six-pack, chips, and an inflatable chair with an air pump but no toilet paper .”
    Nate smirks and pulls his bag onto his lap. “You can thank me later.”
    Lisa’s mouth just hangs open in disbelief, but I want to get back to the dinner part. Was she going to say yes?
    “Let’s see,” says Nate. He pulls out a road flare, bungee cord, a set of jumper cables, a pair of handcuffs (handcuffs?), small silver packages of wrapped emergency food, a cigarette lighter, a well-worn paperback— The Complete Survival Handbook: Protect Yourself Against Revolution, Earthquakes, Hurricanes, Riots, Famines, and Other Disasters —and finally a small first-aid kit.
    “You’re not one of those creepy package bomber survivalists, are you?” Lisa finally manages to say.
    “Nah. They wouldn’t take me after my buddy blew off a couple fingers. Give me your hand.”
    Lisa pulls it back defensively.
    “I’m just going to put a Band-Aid on it. Shakespeare’s right about getting an infection. All these rats around here, you could probably get that flesh-eating bacteria or something.”
    “You could just give me the Band-Aid and Neosporin.”
    “Yeah, you could just give it to her,” I say, my voice definitely pitching to a fourth-grade decibel.
    “But that wouldn’t be any fun, and my buddy Shakespeare likes fun. He was just bragging that he’d have you in the sack by the end of the night. That’s why he gave you some of his jacked-up java: so he could keep you up all night, have his way with you. We bet twenty bucks on it. I personally thought you weren’t that kind of girl, but Shakespeare, he’s so immature.”
    I’m so shocked that I open my mouth, but the words won’t come.
    Lisa turns to me and narrows her eyes. “I thought that didn’t taste like decaf.”
    “Lisa,” I sputter, “I didn’t—”
    “Almost like slipping a girl a roofie,” says Nate.
    And then the unimaginable happens, the unthinkable. Staring me down coolly, Lisa reaches out her hand and actually places it in Nate’s meaty palm, as if she’s daring me to complain. Nate grins at me, dabs a bit of Neosporin on her scratch, and then rubs it lightly—no, pornographically—with his thumb.
    Holy mother of God I need a miracle. “C’mon, spirits, do something,” I mutter.
    And that’s when Maddy’s convulsions start.

CHAPTER THREE: LADYBIRD
    I t’s like watching someone being electrocuted, but there is no blue arc of light, no sizzle of an electrical wire. For a moment we all stare in shock as Maddy lies on the floor, her body convulsing furiously. But then Lisa suddenly jumps to her feet and I do too; together we race to Maddy’s side. With the professional touch of someone who’s worked, even as a receptionist, in a nursing facility, Lisa kneels and expertly cradles Maddy’s head, while I do my best to hold down her shaking body—not an easy task, since underneath the rolls of fat, Maddy is apparently built like a tank.
    Nate, though, just keeps the camera rolling. “Man, this is some great shit.”
    “Should we call an ambulance?” I ask quickly.
    “It looks like some kind of epileptic seizure,” says Lisa. “Let’s get her on her side so if she throws up she doesn’t choke on her vomit.”
    The idea that there might be vomit involved soon is disconcerting to say the least. I try to roll Maddy over, and I get an elbow in the chin for my pains. “You thinking about helping, Nate?”
    “Kinda busy,” says Nate. “See if you can hold her head steady so I can get a close-up.”
    “ God , what an asshole,” mutters Lisa, and I feel a thrill of joy. Thank you spirits and