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pulled. The skin was almost purple under her eyes. Her mouth hung open and her teeth were not very white. Be done with her, he told himself. Three Rorschach tests of blood striped her shirt. There was a dark bruise on her chin. He knew she had bumped her head hard. Now would be the time to load her into the backseat, take her somewhere and dump her and forget the whole thing. But she had seen him; she would know him and he could not have that. He would have to make this work, or he would have to kill her.
    He hoped she appreciated the bed and the clean sheets. He could have left her lying in the bathtub. That was what anyone else would have done. He stared down at her. She looked dead. It would be better if she were. If she were dead already, no one could say it was his fault. She fell in the bathroom. And if she were dead, she would never recognize him. Then she moaned. Damn it.
    Why me, he thought again. It was a song in his head. Why me? Why did she do this to me?
    His cell phone vibrated. He recognized the number. It was Jamie from work. He ran out into the hall and shut the door.
    â€œThis is Oren,” he answered softly.
    â€œWhere are you?”
    â€œI’m sick.”
    â€œYou better call in or you’re gonna get fired. Pete was screaming for you.”
    It was so damn nice of Jamie to call. Jamie was cool, everybody liked Jamie, and Jamie had called him. Tears came suddenly. Oren brushed them away with his bleeding finger. The saltwater stung his open cut and he gritted his teeth. “I will. Okay? I will.”
    â€œJesus, man, I’m just trying to help.”
    â€œSorry, sorry. I just—I feel like shit.”
    â€œYeah. Well.”
    â€œI’ll call right now.”
    â€œYeah. Good. So.” Jamie paused. “Like, feel better.”
    â€œThanks. Thanks so much.”
    Oren gulped down a sob. He hoped Jamie had not heard it as he hung up. He dialed the boss.
    â€œPete? It’s Oren. I’m sick, really sick.”
    â€œHuh. What do you have?”
    Oren could hear the doubt, thick and slimy as mayonnaise. He closed his eyes. He saw Pete standing behind his desk in his office. His good ol’ boy gut hung over his pants. His buttons strained, threatened to erupt every time he took a deep breath. His hand made a damp spot on the phone.
    â€œI guess I’ve got food poisoning. Something I ate.” It wasn’t hard to sound weak. “Or the stomach flu. I hope I’m back tomorrow.”
    â€œMaybe you got some kind of jungle rot from that lizard—‘scuse me—iguana.”
    They all liked to give him shit about Cookie. He was used to it.
    Pete sighed and continued, “Just call me later and let me know about tomorrow. We’re busy. We need you.”
    â€œOkay.”
    â€œMy mom always gave me Coca-Cola and saltines for an upset stomach. Try it.”
    â€œOkay.”
    â€œTake care of yourself. Feel better.”
    â€œThanks. Bye.”
    Oren put his fists in his eyes to block the tears. Pete wanted him back at work, that was all, he wasn’t being nice. Jamie was just overworked and needed him to help out. No goddamn crying. No crying. He looked at his watch. 10:18. He had to makethe first phone call at 3:45. There was a lot to do between now and then and he had no idea how long it took to wake up from a thump on the head. He looked back into the room. She was tied up tight, not going anywhere.
    He pushed open the kitchen door. Cookie looked at him—accusingly he thought.
    â€œStop it. This’ll be good for both of us.”
    He sat down on the floor. Cookie’s nails scraped the linoleum as he turned away from Oren. Like a child sulking.
    â€œDon’t worry,” Oren said. “It’ll work out. It will.”
    Cookie bumped his snout into the cabinet. Again. And again.
    â€œAw, don’t do that. Don’t. Cookie.”
    Cookie lifted his head to look at the ceiling. His nose was bleeding. Oren