Chapter 2

Brenda dragged Mike to his room, her grip like iron. He lay curled on the bed, coughing, a metallic taste in his mouth. He spat into a tissue, bright red blood.

"Look," he pleaded, holding it out. "I'm not faking."

Brenda glanced at it, unmoved. "Mr. Vance said you'd try anything for attention."

She pulled out her phone. "Mrs. Sterling wants an update." After a brief, whispered conversation, she hung up. "She says you're to stay put. She's tired of your theatrics."

Later, Brenda returned, a small, covered terrarium in her hands. "Mr. Vance thought you might like some company. A little pet to keep your spirits up."

She placed it on the nightstand and lifted the lid. A brown spider, lean and ugly, scurried out.

"Brown Recluse," Brenda said, a cruel smile playing on her lips. "Julian's very fond of them." She backed out of the room, closing the door softly.

Mike stared in horror. He was too weak to get up quickly. The spider moved with unnerving speed, disappearing under the bed.

Panic seized him. He tried to push himself up, but the pain in his abdomen was a vise. He felt a sharp sting on his leg.

He swiped at it, his hand connecting with something small and hard. He'd crushed it.

Hours passed in a haze of escalating pain, fever, and delirium. His leg throbbed, a dark, ugly mark spreading from the bite.

The door opened, and Brenda peered in. "Still putting on a show?"

She saw the crushed spider on the floor. Her eyes widened, not with concern for him, but with anger.

"You killed Julian's pet! He'll be furious!"

She took out her phone again, presumably to report to Julian or Vicky.

"He said if you were still being difficult..." She walked to the AC thermostat and cranked it down to its lowest setting. The air began to chill rapidly.

"Have a nice nap, Mike," she said, and left, locking the door from the outside.

The cold seeped into his bones, his body already struggling. He shivered violently, his teeth chattering. Darkness encroached.

A distant knocking sound. Muffled voices.

The door opened again. Not Brenda. A young man in a food delivery uniform.

"Uh, delivery for Mr. Vance?" he asked, looking around the opulent but freezing room, his eyes finally landing on Mike.

Mike tried to speak, but only a croak emerged.

The driver's eyes widened at Mike's state, the discolored leg, the blood on the discarded tissue.

He pulled out his phone. "Yeah, this is Dispatch. My customer, Mrs. Sterling, said to leave the food and ignore... uh... her husband. But he looks really bad. Like, dying bad."

A pause.

"Yes, I'm calling 911. Right now."