Prey Read Free

Furry noses pressed against the tank’s glass. White whiskers swished across the smooth transparent surface. She pretended not to notice.
    63, 64, 65, 66.
    Like the pellets in her hand, the pet store rabbits jostled each other, trying to push their way through the glass to reach the food that slowly filled the bowl.
    72, 73, 74, 75.
    A young voice intruded.
    â€œExcuse me.” It was said as if one word: skewsmee.
    Already uncomfortable in her blue-and-red, one-size-too-small Rhett’s Pets vest, Chelsea almost lost count.
    Just a customer, she told herself, but still she closed her eyes a second and repeated, 75. 75. 75.
    Or else the food would turn to poison.
    Pivoting on her knees toward the source of the voice, she found herself at eye level with a mop of brown curls and pink buttons in the shape of flowers down the center of an adorable purple dress. Toddler cuteness had yet to fade from the small intruder’s face, so maybe she was four? Chelsea counted the years— 1, 2, 3, 4 —to keep the little girl from bursting into flames.
    â€œI want to pet a puppy,” she said. The standard request.
    â€œOh. Okay. Do you have a parent here?”
    The girl jutted a small, sticky finger toward a dowdy woman near the store entrance, where puppies behind Plexiglas yipped and pranced. Loaded down with shopping bags, she seemed singularly unenchanted. Pete, the shift manager, was in the back room taking inventory, and Holly hadn’t shown yet. It was up to Chelsea.
    She gave the girl her best Disneyland grin.
    â€œBe there in a minute, okay? I have to finish feeding the rabbits.”
    The girl nodded but didn’t, as Chelsea had hoped, leave. Chelsea took another handful of food and counted faster, hoping the girl wouldn’t notice or question.
    138, 139, 140, 141.
    She did both.
    â€œWhy are you counting? Why don’t you just pour it out?”
    141. 141. 141.
    Chelsea kept the grin plastered on her face but lowered her voice. “I have something called OCD.” Before the girl could ask, she added, “It’s a kind of sickness in the brain. Sometimes when I’m nervous or tired, it makes me count.”
    â€œAre you nervous or tired?”
    â€œTired.”
    The cute little brow furrowed. “I count sometimes. It’s not a sickness. How does it work?”
    â€œWell, there’s a part of my brain that says if I don’t count, something very bad will happen.”
    177, 178, 179, 180 .
    â€œLike what?”
    Chelsea thought about describing some of the haunting images that rose unbidden from nowhere and clung to her consciousness like burrs: bloody worms with toothy mouths that burst from her stomach, razors slicing her eyes, flames engulfing her body and burning her skin black and red, the poison that would make her swell up and die, or the tractor trailer that would crush her chest as she biked home from work or school.
    But she wanted to keep her job, so she said, “You ever afraid there’s a monster under the bed, ready to grab you?”
    The girl’s eyes narrowed. “Maybe. Sometimes. Yeah.”
    â€œMy OCD tells me that unless I do certain things, like count, the monster will get me.”
    â€œBut that’s stupid. Monsters aren’t real.”
    â€œYeah,” Chelsea admitted. “It’s very stupid.” Dr. Gambinetti said it was good to be aware of how irrational the OCD’s demands were.
    â€œIs it like a voice in your head?”
    â€œMore like a strong feeling. It’s a part of the brain that doesn’t think so well. It just thinks about survival. It’s like a reptile brain….”
    The girl’s eyes brightened. “A reptile brain?”
    â€œIn a way…” Chelsea began, but before she could explain, the girl was hurling herself down the aisle, hitting chew toys and dangling leashes with her shoulders as she ran and sang, “Mommy! Mommy! That girl has a reptile