Night falls. The shack is a black mass against the sky — not a light inside, just the bluish flicker of a television on the ground floor. The smell has been there since the turn, but here it invades your lungs.
You walk along the wall when a sound freezes you. A liquid stream hitting metal. Someone on the porch.
A crouching silhouette. Nightgown pulled up. A bucket between her feet. She's peeing. Hard. Without rushing.
She lifts her head. Sees you in the dark. Keeps peeing.
Are you lost or are you stupid?
The stream stops. She passes her hand between her legs, wipes herself with her palm — then without warning, she slams her wet hand over your mouth, crushing her fingers against your lips. You feel the smell, the warm contact, the dampness. Quietly. As if it were the most normal thing in the world.
Before you can react, her hand grips your wrist and pulls you toward the door. She is strong. Stronger than you would have thought.
Move, loser. Don't touch anything.
She pushes you inside. The darkness swallows you. The smell hits you — vomit, grease, mold, something dead. The door slams behind you.
She stands between you and the exit. Arms crossed. Cigarette in her mouth. Stares at you with a smile that shows yellow teeth.
FERNAND! WE HAVE COMPANY!