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facing the door. An oxygen tube extended from her nose to a dark green tank beside the couch. Her swollen legs protruded from a quilt over her lap, and a crusty black sore dotted her heel. “Thought you was neva gon’ get here.”
    If Victoria hadn’t seen her grandmother at her Daddy’s funeral the day before, she wouldn’t even recognize her. When Mommy died, Gramma Green had a full, nutmeg-brown face with beautiful, flowing black “Indian” hair. But the past ten years had etched a dark, raccoon-like streak around her watery eyes, and an ashen gray pallor accentuated her sunken cheeks. Who knew what was under that ratty auburn wig?
    Victoria froze. Dogs were barking in the room at the end of the little hallway that led back from the front door.
    â€œLawd, if Henry ’nem don’t get them animals out ma house—” Gramma Green doubled over, hacking. Her movement exposed the framed pictures on the table next to the couch. Among them was Victoria’s first grade school picture, when she was six, the last time she came to visit here with her mother. After Mommy died, Daddy said it wasn’t safe or wise for Victoria to come here and be influenced by her cousins.
    Gramma Green sat up, blocking the picture. She spit a wad of slime into a tissue then looked back up at Victoria.
    How is this sick old woman gonna take care of me? And how did Mommy grow up in this place? She escaped, scooped up by her white knight, who made her princess of his castle. But now some wicked spell was reversing the good fortune.
    â€œGrrrrr!” Victoria glanced to the right, down a dim hallway. A white pit bull with red-rimmed eyes was charging at her. She screamed, dropped her suitcase and raised her arms over her head. Her mind flashed with news reports she had heard about those vicious attack dogs clamping their teeth onto a person’s neck, shaking violently, and killing men, women and children.
    The dog’s sharp white teeth flashed. It leaped up at her.
    It’s over. Three minutes in the ghetto and I’m killed by a pit bull. Yet another tragic tidbit for the media to sensationalize Daddy’s scandal. Maybe the TV stations would even show her chewed-up, bloody body being dragged out of this little hut while all those people on the street cheered, “Whitey’s dead!”
    And I didn’t even get to make myself cum one last time. Male laughter shot into the room along with a high-pitched dog whimper and a rattling chain. Victoria peeked between the pink sleeves of her shirt. The dog was flinging backward on a leash held by a young black guy who was cracking up.
    â€œHenry!” Victoria shouted. She hit him on the arm playfully, like when they were kids in the backyard or at the family’s annual picnic at Belle Isle Park. “Don’t you remember I’m scared of dogs?”
    â€œWelcome to da hood, baby!” Finally, a familiar, vibrant face. Henry’s big, dark eyes sparkled from his oatmeal-colored face. He had a cool goatee and mustache that was so finely groomed it looked painted on. His oversized, super-white teeth flashed as he grinned then leaned down to tighten the dog’s leash. His black hair was carved with block letters that spelled POUND across the back of his thick head. The same word scrolled across the wide back of his red football jersey, which hung long over his baggy jeans. He dropped the leash and kept the dog in one spot by pressing a red leather gym shoe onto the chain.
    â€œHenry, you scared me!” Victoria pressed her right hand just below the C-cup curve filling out her soft pink sweater. If only she could caress her nipples and take care of Celeste right now! The terror of that moment intensified her self-sex craving so strong, Victoria was dizzy.
    â€œGirl, you ain’t gotta worry ’bout nothin’,” Henry said as the dog growled. “You my favorite cousin. An’ I got’ cha