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The bar is rebuilding itself.

I grab Henry’s hand and run for the door, but it’s there again, whole and closed, and when Henry throws it open, something in the darkness roars in triumph and lunges, and he pulls it closed just in time.

We both turn. The bar is back the way it was.

“Five minutes,” I whisper, and I stride to Maggie. “We only had five minutes. Why couldn’t you have said that. One word: run. That’s all we needed.”

“I can’t,” she says, still facing the bar, her glass now back. She reaches for it, and I grab for her shoulder.

Before I can touch her, the bartender stands up. He’d been hidden behind the bar, and now he rises, his throat unblemished, his eyes black holes, his mouth contorted in a snarl.

“You little bitch,” he roars, and then I’m flying.

Henry shouts, and I brace for impact, but when I hit the floor, it’s softer than I expect.

My hands clench, fingernails scraping through dirt. I inhale the smell of the forest, rich loam and evergreens. Lifting my gaze, I can see the sky far above, bleeding red.

Then something howls. Something right beside me.

THIRTY-NINE

I’m on my feet, backed against a tree. I can’t see anything—anything. It’s dark in a way it wasn’t before, as if that red in the sky no longer provides any illumination. As I blink rapidly, I can make out the shape of trees, but it’s still so dark.

Whatever howled has stopped, but I can still hear it making odd snorting, snuffling noises. Then the sound of its steps as it comes closer. I look about wildly, but I cannot see. My heart vibrates as panic courses through me. The sounds come from right in front of me, and I know I should run, but I don’t know how. It’s pitch dark, and I’ll smack into a tree or trip over a root.

And if I don’t run I die, so it doesn’t matter, does it? Just run and hope.

I turn, ready to bolt, when I can make out a hanging tree limb, heavy with leaves. A big, sturdy limb.

I reach up and my fingers barely graze it. I jump as high as I can. One hand catches the limb, but the other misses, and I fall back down. Behind me, the thing is still coming, still making those noises. Slavering, that’s the word. It’s so close I can smell the stink of it, and in one leap, it’ll have me.

I jump and again, only one hand catches, but this time I clamp down, the bark biting in as I throw up my other hand. My fingers find the branch and then I swing my feet up, clambering against the trunk as I channel eight-year-old Ellie, best tree climber in the neighborhood.

As my feet walk up the trunk, my hands shimmy out along the limb. I start to pull my left foot over the branch when the beast realizes what I’m doing. Another roar, and it launches itself below me. Teeth graze my right ankle, and that foot slips, but I somehow manage to get the left one up and then the right, and then I’m hanging like a sloth.

The beast leaps again and catches the back of my sweatshirt. It yanks, and I squeeze my eyes shut and hold on tight because it’s all I can do. I don’t dare try to get into a better position. It pulls harder, ripping the shirt before hitting the ground with a thump.

I hug the branch, arms and legs wrapped around it. Below me, the creature jumps, and it gets higher, teeth skimming my braid. That lights a fire under me, and I shimmy and wriggle until I’m atop the branch.

I’m on my belly now, still gripping the branch for dear life. Beneath me, the shadows themselves seem to writhe. Then they coalesce into a form—a giant black dog.

A fetch. A grim. All the long-forgotten words come rushing back. Giant black dogs that warn of death. Is this what the old man saw? What he was afraid of? A creature from folklore? The Baskerville hound?

As I peer down, the beast paces back and forth. Then it looks up, eyes meeting mine. The eyes are wild, whites showing around red irises. And that snuffling, slathering noise is the beast literally slathering, foaming at the mouth, strings of it hanging from those giant jaws.

Rabid dog. That’s what the bartender said. That the old man—Edgar—was afraid of rabid dogs.

I shudder as I stare down at the beast. Once, in school, someone came in to do a presentation on rabies because there’d been a local case. The person doing the presentation either wasn’t accustomed to dealing with children or knew children far too well and understood how to make them actually listen. The presentation had been horrifying, and I’d had nightmares for weeks. I’d once seen a dog foaming from exertion and ran all the way home.

The bartender seemed to mock Edgar for his fear, but I get it. One bite of those jaws and if I don’t get to a hospital fast, I will die a slow and agonizing death.

If I don’t get to a hospital fast?

I let out a sniggering, wheezing laugh. Yeah, somehow I don’t think this pocket universe contains hospitals. Also, “slow and agonizing death” is apparently the only item on the menu today.

Unless I can kill the bartender again.

If I do, we have five minutes. Five minutes to…?