.

"We can stay here. It's my grandma's house," Chad says after shimming the front door of the house open with a piece of mail he found in a ditch. Bexley and a damp Zandra slip inside under the cover of night. It's a long walk back from Devil's Hole to this old, core neighborhood in Stevens Point.

Which is why we didn't walk it. Still can't believe people will stop for hitchhikers. They're begging to be murdered by some transient psychopath. Someone ought to, honestly, to send a warning to the other good Samaritans. In life, no good deed goes unpunished.

The fact the house is the only one on the block without any lights on outside isn't lost on Zandra. Neither are the graffiti and trash inside. A plate of curled lunch meat sits atop a television with a cracked screen.

"Your grandma lives here?" Zandra says. Still dressed in her underwear, she steps into what could be called a living room in the same way fertilizer could be called a corpse.

Chad picks up a slice of lunchmeat and sniffs it. He puts it back down on the plate and says, "Well, OK, it used to be my grandma's house."

"She must've left in a hurry," Zandra says.

Bexley whispers to Zandra, "His grandma died three years ago."

That checks out, given the age of the lunchmeat.

This is one of those places you'd want to run a carpet cleaner through just to see the filth that it pulls up. Satisfying.

"OK, fine. It was my grandma's, and then it was my cousin's until he moved out, and then some guy bought it to rent out, and then I don't know what happened. Now it's like this," Chad says and waves at a couch that must've caught fire at some point. The arm on one side is missing, cauterized by char. "It's no big deal. Lots of houses like this on this street. Free rent."

So I noticed. It's amazing how quickly they turned into four-walled landfills after the bottom fell out of Stevens Point. The largest employer finally goes under, it was bound to happen eventually, right? All that shit, all that fraud, all that rot waiting to pounce. I'm a victim of circumstance, just like anyone else. Right place, right time, to put Gene and his company and all that collusion in the dirt. Right?

Zandra itches her scalp. Grease packs beneath her fingernails. Her hair is so dirty she can smell it.

This city was destined to boil in its own shit. If not me, it would've been someone else.

Bexley flicks on another light, bringing the sloppy wreckage into full resolution. She hunches over the couch and runs her hand along what remains of the cushions.

"Right where I left it," Bexley says. She pulls out a glass pipe.

Chad drags a chair over to a tall bookshelf next to the couch. The books are all on the floor, replaced on the shelves by shoelaces, candles, empty soda cans, balls of tinfoil, dirty disinfecting wipes, pacifiers, and cigarettes. He grabs a pocket torch from the top of the bookshelf.

Wait. Are those cigarettes still good?

"Help yourself," Chad says to Zandra after hopping off the chair.

"I will," Zandra says and grabs a loose, full cigarette off the bookshelf.

I don't care how old this cigarette is, I don't have any other options. I've still got the lawnmower knife in the sheath on my wrist and that bottle of nifedipine pills, but everything else is gone. Can't believe this is still the same day the Curd Queen sank. Long fucking day. Ivy and Jade, they'll be OK, or so they said. No refunds. My kind of people.

"No, I mean this," Chad says as Bexley hands him the pipe. "I've got good shit, and I've got really good shit."

Zandra slides around a pile of glass shards and finds a relatively decent patch of cushion on the couch to sit down on. She puts the cigarette between her lips and motions toward Chad. "Just give me the lighter."

"Ewww," Bexley says and points at Zandra's cigarette. "I wouldn't smoke that."

"Cigarettes are a waste of money anyway. There are better ways to feel God kiss you on the lips—and for less money," Chad says and tests the torch. A cone of blue flame spits out.

Oh, OK, I didn't realize this was the health department.

"I'm less interested in what you've got than I am where you got it from," Zandra says. She tries to stand up from the couch, but her bad ankle keeps her sitting. It's done.

That hurts in a new way. Deep. Pushed it too hard today. Way, way too hard.

"Yeah, yeah, but all that stuff can wait," Chad says. "It's snackin' 'n' relaxin' time."

Bexley is already ahead of Chad on the first half of that plan. She's wrist deep in a bag of chips.

I don't care where those came from. I'm starving.

"I'm excited for this, though. Can't wait," Bexley says and passes the chips to Zandra. "All we have to do is swim down to the Curd Queen in Devil's Hole, get those cases with the shit inside, and sell them."

Yes. It's that simple. I'm surprised you remembered all that.

It's the selling of the drugs that's the part I'm struggling with. Working backward through Chad and Bexley's connections is as good a plan as I can think of, since this is completely out of my element. The trick won't be finding buyers. The trick is finding a buyer with enough money to make the purchase. Oh, and valuing the drugs in the first place. I don't know exactly what's in those cases.

Then there's the small issue of Glenn being out there. He and whoever hired him are the wild cards. Do they know about the drugs on the Curd Queen? Were they there to kill Aaron and that's it?

Of course, Glenn thinks I'm dead. That's something to keep in my pocket for later. If I had pockets, that is. I need a new set of clothes before anything else happens.

"You need a change of clothes, Zandra?" Bexley says and then pauses. "I mean some new clothes. There's nothing really to swap when you're still in your underwear."

Zandra crunches down on a chip, sucks at the salt, swallows, and says in a croak, "You read my mind."

"OK, wait here," Bexley says and leaves for what can be assumed is the kitchen.

It's not like I'm going anywhere else.

Chad scrapes old residue out of the pipe with a pocketknife. Bexley rummages out of sight until she returns with a purple gown. It's nearly a match for Zandra's old purple gown, now resting somewhere beneath the Wisconsin River.

"Here," Bexley says and hands the purple gown to Zandra.

Wow. It's got baggy sleeves and deep pockets and everything. Genuinely impressed.

Zandra sets the bag of chips aside. She slips the gown over her head. The seams fit seamlessly.

"Tell her," Chad says to Bexley.

Bexley clasps her hands together in excitement. "OK, so a couple weeks ago, me and Chad scored some benzo bars, and right before we fell asleep, I had the wildest vision. It was me handing you your purple sack."

It's a baggy gown, but thanks.

"Guess what we did the next morning?" Chad says.

"Slept in?" Zandra says.

"We found the exact dress in that thrift shop off Carson Street," Bexley says.

Zandra unrolls the sleeves down to her wrists.

Nice story. Knowing these two, this could be cover for something else they were planning. An impersonation? I'm too tired to read these two for lies. I just want something to wear. Love the deep pockets. I feel like a monk wearing this thing.

"What do you think, Zandra? Was this our Soma Falls?" Bexley says, smiling.

Zandra rubs her palms together and says, "I think I'll keep it, child."

"She's totally blown away. I can tell," Chad says. "Pass the chips."

Zandra hands the bag off to Chad. He tips what remains of the contents into his mouth and tosses the bag to the floor.

"You want a green hit?" Chad says to Zandra.

"It'd be our honor," Bexley says.

What's a green hit? Oh, who cares, the answer is no.

"I'm good," Zandra says.

"Maybe she's not into weed," Bexley says.

"Yeah, definitely not," Chad says.

In the name of chivalry, Chad offers Bexley the "green hit." They pass the pipe back and forth while Zandra rubs her bad ankle.

Smells skunky in here.

"That really bothers you, doesn't it?" Bexley says between a drag on the pipe. She points at Zandra's ankle.

More than you know. It has a lot to carry around.

Bexley squats down and brushes Zandra's hand away from the ankle. She traces something like a symbol over Zandra's bony skin before gently cupping her hand over the joint.

"I can heal this," Bexley says and closes her eyes in concentration.

No, you can't.

"Reiki?" Zandra says.

"Better than that," Bexley says and opens her eyes. She looks up and over to Chad. "Let's give her something for her ankle."

"Not interested," Zandra says and finishes her cigarette early. It tastes like carpet. Not seeing an ashtray anywhere, she drops the cigarette into an empty beer can nearby.

"Just wait. You'll see," Bexley says.

Chad swaps the glass pipe for another. He charges the new, hammer-shaped pipe with what looks like pale cocoa powder.

He making a cake?

Chad passes the pipe and the pocket torch to Bexley. Bexley holds them both out for Zandra.

Zandra leans forward to get a better view. She's hit with a rank, acidic smell that cuts through the skunk in the air like a chainsaw.

"What the hell is this? Vinegar?" Zandra says.

"It's help. It's healing. You need it," Chad says.

Bexley brings the pipe to Zandra's lips with one hand and flicks the torch on with the other.

"You ready?" Bexley says.

Zandra's first instinct is to draw the lawnmower knife and leave. Something stops her. It's a feeling that's wanted to break out for a long time.

Fuck it. Just fuck it. I've got nothing left. Zero fucks to give. It's always another thing. Always. It's never enough. You try to do good on someone, you try to make things right, and it all blows up, and you're right back to being the bad guy, hiding in some pit of a house like a criminal. So fuck it.

Zandra's hesitation reverses course, and she watches herself nod. Bexley swirls blue flames over the powder.

"Only breathe in when I tell you," Bexley says. "Not yet. Not yet. Almost. OK, perfect. Go."

Zandra takes a breath in through the pipe. The vinegar smell sinks its fangs into her throat and sinus. Zandra recoils and coughs.

Bexley smiles and says, "A little more, Zandra. Come on. Can't waste this burn."

Fuck it.

Zandra sips on the pipe again, and again she coughs. Chad laughs. Bexley stands up from the couch and trades the pipe back and forth with Chad.

"Holy shit," Zandra says in a wheeze. She clutches her chest.

"You OK?" Chad says.

Zandra gets up from the couch.

I think it's time to go.

Wait.

I'm standing on two feet.

The pain in Zandra's ankle is gone.

"See? I told you it'd work," Bexley says.

Zandra paces the living room, kicking the debris on the floor out of the way.

Amazing. I can do it without limping.

Not only that, but the cauldron in her stomach relaxes, too. That internal combustion engine of piss and hate and guilt and rage and sorrow and loathing switches off for the first time in more than 25 years. A glassy calm warms her nerves, and she finally acknowledges something she's desperately craved for a long, long, long time.

Friendship. Real, honest-to-goodness friends. Friends who care about you. Friends who care when you hurt and help you feel better.

Zandra reaches her arms out wide and double hugs Bexley and Chad. She kisses each on the cheek. "I love you two."

"Now this is the Zandra I knew was in there all along," Bexley says, unaware she's leaking blood from her homemade stitches again. A dab of red prints onto Zandra's purple gown.

The three "friends" spend the rest of the night rummaging through the house for snacks like mice, listening to but not watching one of several broken TVs, and bouncing random questions off each other. Zandra doesn't cough once.

"What the ghosts—I mean—wait—what do the ghosts tell you about God?" Chad says to Zandra, oscillating between half-asleep and half-awake, if there is to be a difference at all. He itches his bare chest, partially covered by his unzipped leather jacket.

Now there's a good question. Let's punt and ask another question.

"Do you mean, do the ghosts say anything about God that would make me think God exists?" Zandra says from the kitchen, feeling drowsier by the minute but still coherent.

Don't let this feeling end now. I don't want to sleep yet.

Zandra returns to the couch. Chad follows her and flips over a five-gallon bucket to use as a chair. Bexley is off somewhere else in the house. They can hear her, but they can't see her. Neither is too concerned.

"Well, yeah, isn't that the question?" Chad says. "Because if they do, you're sorta like a prophet, don't you think? Pass the word on to the humans."

I love this conversation. I should have more of these, especially with Chad. Why don't I? He's so open minded.

"You know how every, single one of these conversations about God ends, don't you?" Zandra says.

"How?"

"With two questions: where did reality come from, and where does human morality come from?" Zandra says. She waves her hand like shooing a fly. "That's it. We can talk for hours, but that's where we'll ultimately wind up. So why don't you ask me that instead?"

Chad shrugs. "OK. I'm asking you that."

"Fine. Now let me ask you," Zandra says. "Do you believe in God?"

"There's got to be something behind all of this, don't you think? The odds are too low for it all to be an accident," Chad says, hunched elbow-to-knee off the bucket.

"And there it is. The first question, about where everything comes from. See? I told you it all boils down to that," Zandra says. She clears her throat, but she doesn't cough. "So if something happens, and the odds are low enough, it must be because God had something to do with it, right?"

"I mean, yeah, right?" Chad says.

Zandra spots a pack of poker cards on top of a green mat on the floor. "Get me those cards. I want to show you something about God."

The cards aren't more than six feet away, but Chad never makes it to them. He slumps off the bucket, folding down to the floor one elbow at a time. It's a relatively soft landing onto a roll of paper towels and fluff from a ripped-up coat.

He's still breathing. Good. He just nodded off, that's all.

Zandra cracks her neck and settles into the couch. She's asleep before she can brush the mouse shit away from her shoulders.

Zandra sleeps so deep and so heavy, her slumber nearly forms its own gravity. She wakes many hours later feeling more rested than she has in years. The feeling soon turns to alarm as soon as she opens her eyes.

Why is someone strangling Chad with a chain?