The Eighth Ward

"Yes."

The word curls into the air like smoke. The shadow laughs—a sound like breaking glass. Then the light dies. Not flickers. Dies. And in the black, something wet slaps the floor. Once. Twice. A rhythm. My pulse.

"You always were a slow learner, Cal."

The voice is everywhere. Inside my skull. Behind my eyes. Under my bracelet, where the plastic suddenly feels like teeth.