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He’s trapped, just like the boy and his mom in that movie, only Edgar is literally trapped and the dog is in here with him, and he can’t do anything.

He still tries. He flails and manages to catch the armrest of the passenger seat. He grips it and pulls with all his might.

I don’t care if I leave my leg behind.

I don’t care about anything but getting out.

The dog roars, that stinking hot breath making Edgar’s stomach churn. He wrenches with everything he has, twisted in the seat, his left leg out the door as he heaves his body and wills his leg to come free. Just let go, in any way it can, attached to his body or not.

But if it’s possible to do such a thing, it’s a feat for a younger man. He doesn’t have the strength, and he only tears the flesh as he screams until his throat is hoarse.

The dog is in the cabin with him now. On top of him. Grabbing his shoulder and wrenching, and he lashes out, slapping and scratching.

He remembers something he heard about dogs and he smacks his hand down hard on its sensitive snout. It doesn’t even flinch.

The eyes. Go for its eyes.

The dog’s teeth sink in, and Edgar screams, every thought flying from his head as pain slams through him. He fights blindly, kicking his good leg and pummeling the beast as it drags him from the car. It’s hauling him backward, fangs deep in Edgar’s shoulder. Then it stops, Edgar’s trapped leg stopping him, and he almost laughs through the pain.

He can’t get out of the car, and the beast can’t drag him out.

The dog gives a tentative pull.

It won’t work. I’m trapped.

A hysterical giggle bubbles up.

Might as well just go. Leave me behind. You can’t—

The beast gives a mighty yank, and there’s a wet tearing sound, the pain so overwhelming that Edgar can’t even scream, his mouth open, nothing coming out. Then there’s a pop, and he hits the ground.

See? You just needed to be stronger. It’ll come off eventually.

The laugh burbles up as tears stream down his face, and the dog drags him into the forest.

FOURTEENELLIE

Clutching the metal rod, Henry strides toward the old man’s car. Then he stops short. I hurry over, swinging around him just as his hand jerks up to stop me.

Henry and I stand by the wide-open driver’s door.

“Did he get free?” I say. “How…?”

I trail off as I see what Henry is staring at … and why he’d tried to stop me before I spotted it.

The old man’s lower leg is still there. I shine the light, my hand shaking, my brain refusing to process what I’m seeing. The pajama pant leg is gone, the calf obscenely bare and pale and blood-streaked, muscle and bone …

Whatever did this didn’t just tear him free. It ripped hard enough that the leg stayed pinned and the flesh tore and the knee joint separated and …

“You don’t need to see that,” he says.

“Back away and pretend I didn’t see it?” I snap, and it’s harsher than I want to be, but the words pour out. “Pretend something didn’t rip—” I wheel, flashlight beam arcing as it slashes across the forest. “Where is he?”

“I don’t—”

“Where is he?” I shout the words and then I squeeze my eyes shut. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”

The lightest touch on my arm. “I don’t know what’s going on, Ellie.”