Timmy hid his feet under the covers. He scooted into the corner while the stranger paced in front of the bed. Something was wrong. The stranger seemed upset. He hadn’t said anything since he came into the room. Instead, he threw his ski jacket onto the bed and started pacing.

Timmy kept quiet and watched. Under the covers, he pulled and yanked the chain. The stranger forgot to close the door behind him, leaving it wide open. The smell of dirt and mold came in with a draft. It was black on the other side of the door.

“What happened to the lantern?” the stranger suddenly wanted to know. The glass casing still lay on the crate.

“I…I couldn’t light it, so I had to take that thing off. Sorry, I forgot to put it back on.”

The stranger took the glass and snapped it in place without looking at Timmy. When he bent over, Timmy saw black, curly hair sticking out from under his mask. Richard Nixon. That was the dead president the mask resembled. It had taken Timmy three attempts at naming the presidents before he remembered. But there was still something very familiar about Richard Nixon’s blue eyes. Something in the way they stared at him, especially tonight. As if they were apologizing.

Suddenly, the stranger grabbed his jacket and wrestled into it.

“It’s time to go.”

“Where?” Timmy tried to control his excitement. Was it really possible that the stranger might take him home? Maybe he’d realized his mistake. Timmy crawled out of bed, keeping the chain behind his feet.

“Take off all your clothes, except your underpants.”

Timmy’s excitement shattered. “What?” he asked over the lump gathering in his throat. “It’s awfully cold out.”

“Don’t ask questions.”

“But I don’t understand what—”

“Just do it, you little son of a bitch.”

The unexpected anger felt like a slap in the face. Even Timmy’s eyes stung, his vision suddenly blurred by the tears gathering. He shouldn’t cry. He wasn’t a baby anymore. But he was scared. So scared his fingers shook as he untied his shoes. He noticed the cracked sole on his tennis shoe as he kicked it off. It had leaked in snow when they were sledding, getting his feet cold and wet, but he couldn’t imagine how cold it would be without shoes.

“I don’t understand,” he mumbled again. The lump obstructed his breathing now as well as his voice.

“You don’t need to understand. Hurry up.” The stranger paced, the huge rubber boots caked with snow and mud, a thump-squash sound with each step.

“I don’t mind staying here,” Timmy attempted again.

“Shut the fuck up, you little bastard, and hurry up.”

Tears ran down Timmy’s cheeks, and he didn’t bother to wipe at them. His fingers were shaking something terrible as he undid his belt, remembered the chain on his ankle, then worked on his shirt buttons, instead. The stranger would need to unchain him. Would he notice the bent links? Would he get even more angry? Already Timmy felt a cold draft swirling around him. His stomach hurt. He wanted to throw up. Even his knees were shaking, and his vision blurred from the tears.

Suddenly, the stranger’s pacing stopped. He stood perfectly still in the middle of the room, cocking his head to one side. At first Timmy thought the stranger was staring at him, but instead, he was listening. Timmy strained to hear over his thumping heart. He sniffed back tears and dragged a sleeve across his face. Then he heard it—a car engine in the distance, getting closer and slowing down.

“Fuck!” the stranger spat, grabbing the lantern and heading for the door.

“No, please don’t take the light.”

“Shut the fuck up, you little crybaby.”

He wheeled back around, smashing the back of his hand across Timmy’s face. Timmy scrambled into the bed, escaping into the corner. He hugged the pillow, but jerked away at the sight of the red blotch.

“You better be ready when I get back,” the stranger hissed. “And stop bleeding all over the place.”

The stranger ran out the door, slamming it and the locks back into place, leaving Timmy in a hole of solid black. He hurried out in such a rush that he didn’t even notice Timmy’s chain, broken and dangling over the edge of the bed.