The Drowning Game Read Free Page B

the front door. Through the screen I heard him say, “Sorry for your loss.”
    Once I heard the truck start up, I went down to the living room and watched out the front window as he drove away.
    And then it hit me.
    I had no one to lock me in my room. Why hadn’t I thought to ask one of them to lock me in? They probably wouldn’t have. But how would I sleep?
    Dad had left instructions for Randy King. Why hadn’t he left any for me? I was the one who needed them.
    One of the dogs gave a sharp yip from the garage. I’d forgotten all about them, and they probably needed to go outside and do their business. I was grateful for something to do.
    Out in the garage, I raised the door and they ran for it, making a fast trotting check of the perimeter of the property. Dad had taught them to do that before they did anything else. After their tour, they relieved themselves and sat panting in front of me, waiting for orders or to be released to patrol.
    I gave the hand signal to heel and walked into the garage with them following, lowered the door and locked it. Then I opened the door from the garage into the house, and they alternately studied each other and me, trying to understand what I wanted. I signaled for them to follow me into the house. Dad wouldn’t like it, but he wasn’t here. If I couldn’t be locked in my room, this was the next best thing.
    They danced uncertainly at the threshold, remembering well what Dad had taught them about going in the house, which was not to do it unless a stranger was attacking me or him. I dropped to a squat and scratched their ears.
    â€œYou’re going to come in the house,” I told them. “It’s okay. I’m the alpha now.” I walked through the door, turned and faced them, and signaled “come.” They danced and whined.
    â€œCome,” I said.
    It took five tries, but they finally tiptoed into the house, glancing at each other guiltily. I hoped this wouldn’t ruin their training. I signaled for them to follow me into the TV room. They did, and sat. I released them, hoping they’d explore the house and get used to the idea of being inside. After a while they ventured out of the room, Sarx going left, Tesla right, like they’d been trained to do.
    I sat on the couch and picked up the remote. Every sound was amplified—­the dogs’ panting, the prairie wind outside, my gurgling stomach—­which made me want to crawl out of my own skin. I turned on the TV and surfed until I found an Offender NYC marathon. The dogs returned, then stood and stared at me, waiting for a command.
    â€œLie down,” I said. They did.
    T HE NEXT THING I knew I was drowning in the bathtub.
    I wanted to breathe, but I couldn’t because I was underwater, on my back staring at the misshapen, shifting bathroom ceiling. I tried to break the surface, but it was as if I was chained to the bottom.
    But I wasn’t chained. I didn’t see it before, but someone was holding me underwater. I couldn’t quite make out the face, but I knew it was a man and he was pushing down on me with huge hands, trying to make me inhale. Talking to me, saying something I couldn’t quite make out from beneath the water. The bridge of my nose burned and everything went gray, so I knew I wouldn’t be conscious for much longer. Death was coming for me.
    I ’VE HAD THIS recurring dream for as long as I can remember. It made sense I’d dream it the night my dad died. I always wake up from it gasping for air, like I’ve actually been held underwater. As I surface from sleep, I can feel the heavy water sliding off me, down the hollows of my face. My eyes sting and my lungs can’t expand enough to take in the oxygen I need, although I’m in no true danger. It was only a dream. But even as the nightmare fades, the irresistible force of the dream tugs on my every cell, dragging me downward into a spiral that will never end,