I remember my mother’s howls mixed with that of the dog’s, both reprimanding, both begging me to get out!

I remember both of them looking at me as if the mere act of sitting there in the dark were hurting them, ripping them limb from limb with the need to remove me, the ring of moonlight tracing my silhouette, and fill up the space where I was with nothing.

I remember she thumped back against the chipping paint of the doorframe and too-quietly said fine, do nothing all night if I care, so I won’t get to sleep either, and the dog, pacing back and forth like a convict in his cell, step outside those walls and join me.

I don’t remember whether he wanted to play fetch or—his long white teeth flashing bright in the starlight—drag me, screaming and scab-kneed, out into the dark woods that swayed back and forth in the distance as if they were moving ever closer with a loping gait.

I remember that it was too late to solve our problems, and the sun had buried itself beneath the horizon, so I shifted my weight from front to back but my feet didn’t leave the ground.

I remember being stuck fast from fear-sweat to the uneven wood.

I remember that I stilled, tried not to breathe, and waited for time to resume with the morning.