.././.\\.\//.///\

"Are you sure you're not here to rob me?" Pixie says.

How much time do I have left before the loop stops playing? Can't be too much longer. I need to get the timing right.

Zandra presses on, literally into the kitchen and figuratively with Pixie.

"It's got to be midstream urine, too. Absolutely a requirement. Not the first bit, and certainly not the last bit. Just the middle of the stream, child," Zandra says. She opens cupboards in the kitchen until she finds a coffee mug.

Pixie seems confused. "You know I have a gun, right?"

Zandra holds the coffee mug out. "Where's the bathroom? I need this fast."

"I don't have to go."

"Make yourself go," Zandra says like she's scolding a kid before a road trip. She sets the coffee mug on the kitchen counter and steps away.

She's more likely to comply if she doesn't have to take the mug from me directly.

Keeping the pistol in her right hand, Pixie grabs a coffee mug from the kitchen, but it isn't the one Zandra set down. Zandra backs away as Pixie chooses a smaller mug from an open cupboard. She sticks a pair of tongs inside the ceramic.

"What are you going to do while I'm in the bathroom?" Pixie says.

"Not steal anything, if that's what you're thinking," Zandra says.

"You would regret it."

"I believe you."

"This is weird. You know that, right?"

"Not to me. Now hurry, but don't skip washing your hands when you're done. I'll be standing right where you left me."

Pixie gives Zandra one more long look before retreating to the bathroom down a short hallway off the kitchen. Zandra waits until she hears the bathroom door shut to open the refrigerator.

No leftover pizza. Plenty of things to drink, all of them dairy-free. Lots of perishables and produce. Nothing smells expired. No meat. No eggs. Tortillas. Vegan butter. Something called "cashew cheezze dip." Oat milk. A pack of "fakon" slices. Tons of salsa. I'm sensing a theme here. Does the man in the van eat baby carrots and hummus when they're done fucking? Maybe, but let's check the freezer.

Zandra closes the refrigerator door and opens the attached freezer.

Fruits and vegetables, and lots of them. Frozen pastas and Indian dishes, all of them vegan. Veggie patties. "Meet-balls." That all sticks to the theme. But what's this?

Zandra pushes aside a bag of frozen green beans.

Chicken nuggets in an open, "party size" box. Nothing wrong with that. You can't eat like a heart doctor every day.

Upon closer inspection of the box, Zandra sees real chicken—not "chik'n"—as an ingredient.

Maybe, just maybe, this is a cheat box of chicken nuggets. The virtues of veganism don't translate as well when you're not practicing it in front of other people. However, I'd bet this has to do with a certain guest's preference.

The toilet flushes. Zandra closes the freezer and steps back into the position she was in when Pixie left. She glances at the clock on the microwave.

Food inspection will need to wait. For now, let's suppose the man in the van prefers chicken nuggets either before or after sex. I bet he microwaves them, too. What a catch.

And it is the man in the van who eats them. I'm positive. Whoever Pixie is cheating with wouldn't be so stupid as to leave non-vegan food that wasn't earmarked for the man in the van out in the open. At least, I hope they wouldn't be that stupid.

Pixie comes out with a gun and a mug full of piss. She sets the mug down onto a potholder on the kitchen counter.

"Perfect," Zandra says and picks up the mug. The ceramic feels warm in her hands.

"You're not going to drink that, are you?" Pixie says from the living room, having moved out of range of any urine hurling Zandra might attempt.

Zandra brings the mug to her nose and breathes in deep. "I need to know how deeply this spirit is attached to you."

Pixie looks repulsed. "And?"

"Pluck a hair from your head and put it in the mug. Quickly, child," Zandra says. For the first time, she notices the logo on the mug. It's for a company in Stevens Point that rents vehicles.

Including vans.

Rather than pull her hair, Pixie returns to the bathroom. She works a wad of hair from a comb and places it in the mug.

Clever. Aware. Worth noting.

"Good, now repeat after me: cho-ku-rei, choke-you-Ray, cho-ku-rei," Zandra says.

Pixie stumbles over the phrasing, not that it matters to cleansing spirits.

"Good. Again," Zandra says, and Pixie repeats the phrase. "Good. Keep going. Don't stop until I say so, child."

While Pixie twists her tongue through a dozen "cho-ku-rei" recitations from the living room, Zandra finds a box of kitchen matches in a drawer. She lights one after another, dropping them into the coffee mug for the urine to drown the flames.

That smells exactly as bad as you think it would.

Pixie stops her recitations.

"Keep going, child," Zandra says. Then she feels it, too. Or, rather, she doesn't feel it.

Fifteen minutes is up. Those dumb fucks got it together enough to switch off the loop.

"What...what just...how?" is all Pixie can say.

Zandra fakes a motherly smile. "Oh, child. It's OK. You don't need to say anything. You're safe now. It's gone."

Pixie shakes her head like she's trying to dislodge glitter from her face. "I don't understand any of this."

"It's only a mystery until you understand why," Zandra says. "Perhaps there's a specific reason you attracted a malevolent spirit?"

Tell me all about it.

Zandra takes a step toward the living room, hands out like a servant holding an invisible tray. The flutter of the loose fabric of her purple gown wafts the burning urine stench toward Pixie.

"Who are you again?" Pixie says.

"You saw my flyer."

"You're a psychic."

"I am."

Pixie chews on her lower lip.

I'm losing her. Time to reel her back in.

"Tell me their name, child," Zandra says.

"What name?"

"You know. Tell me their name."

"Their name" is intentionally vague. I could be referring to one person or more than one, since "they" is often used as a singular pronoun, although it can be plural, too. Can't go wrong with exploiting language and letting the mark fill in the blanks for you. Police interrogators use this trick to massage suspects.

I should know.

Pixie looks around like she's expecting someone to jump out from behind the couch. Zandra takes a tiny step toward her. Quietly. Almost unnoticeably. Then another step, and another, until a few inches turn into 12.

Slowly show her I can be trusted, but give her her distance, too.

It doesn't work.

"Get out," Pixie says in a whisper.

Zandra cocks her head.

I heard you. You're not the one in control, though.

"Get out," Pixie says louder.

"Is it something I said?" Zandra says.

"This is just too much," Pixie says. "You showing up like this, what you asked me to do, the way it went away. No. Just, no. I can't."

Sure, you can.

The 9mm in Pixie's hand remains pointed at the floor.

"You're stressed, child. You're not thinking right. I was summoned here for a reason. Tell me why," Zandra says.

"You need to leave."

No, I don't.

"Why haven't you called the police yet?" Zandra says and takes another step forward.

"I will," Pixie says.

"But you haven't. I wouldn't stop you, child," Zandra says.

"Then just leave."

"Do it. Call them," Zandra says. She looks around for a phone.

Must be in her pocket. I don't see one.

Pixie sneers, but she doesn't call the police.

"That's what I thought," Zandra says, still employing the slow and smooth cadence that lulled her marks at Sneak Peek into handing over their dignity. "You haven't pointed that gun at me, either. I wonder why?"

"Please. Just leave."

"I will, child. It's your home, and I respect that. Something doesn't make sense about you, though. Help me understand."

"I'm not going to ask you again."

"You already have, and yet here we still are. Your hesitation tells me there's a reason the universe brought us together," Zandra says. "I helped you tonight. Now you help me."

"I never asked for your help in the first place," Pixie says.

That's because this type of manipulation is called "loan sharking." An excellent, time-tested tactic. Give someone something without them asking, and then expect something in return. It's like holding the door open for someone and then expecting a tip. It works quite well with most people, since most people think of themselves as decent rather than as prey.

You'll see this in toxic relationships, TV preachers, and cold sales queries. You'll get a solicitation in the mail that includes a "gift." It's usually a shitty trinket, but it's not the gift that matters. It's the emotional debt. You want to be a good person, don't you? You don't just take things from strangers without paying for them, right? Of course not. Now pay me back.

Zandra may be right about that, but she's wrong about the gun.

Oh, shit.

Pixie aims the 9mm at Zandra. "Leave. I'm begging you."

"Fine, I'll leave. Are you sure, though?" Zandra says, still not moving an inch.

"Positive."

"Do you still have my flyer? Just in case you need to get in touch," Zandra says. The phone number on the flyer, however, has long since been disconnected. The street address only leads to a pile of char, too.

"Please stop asking me questions," Pixie says.

"No need to be rude, child. I'm just trying to help."

"Then help by leaving."

Zandra shuffles off to the front door. She pauses before she opens it, turning to look back at Pixie. Pixie is almost in tears.

You should've never let me in here, Pixie.

"Have a good night," Zandra says and finally leaves.

Back at Ray's car, Chad and Bexley seem in better spirits now that the loop is off. A few beers don't hurt, either.

Zandra leans on the hood of the car and lights a cigarette.

"Everything go OK?" Bexley says.

"She kicked me out," Zandra says.

"Yeah, I know how that goes," Chad says. Bexley gives him a playful slap on the arm.

They head back to "grandma's house" and spend the rest of the night deciding how to make the rest of Ray's cash disappear. In the morning, Zandra gets dropped off by the gyro restaurant in downtown Stevens Point. She tells Chad and Bexley to come back to get her in a half hour.

Time to let the man in the van know what I found out.