Her room was getting tinier and tinier. Sweat ran down her back and stomach in rivulets, too hot and sticky, making her shorts far too tight and her t-shirt skintight. Her hair hung limp and thick, sticking to her neck and her cheeks and her jaw, making her face flush red.
Outside, down the hall, she could hear Sara shrieking at whoever would listen, probably Mrs. Kramer or Mr. Kramer.
Amy bit her lip hard and tried to put her head between her legs, hyperventilating. Sweat ran down her face, down her temples, dampening the collar of her shirt.
"He's a menace!" Sara screamed and her voice cracked on the last note. She stomped fiercely and the whole house shook, windowpanes rattling, wood against glass.
Amy let her mouth drop open and quick, short breaths hissed in and out of her mouth; it wasn't helping any. Tears prickled her eyes, hot and stinging.
Panic rose in her, a huge, gushing wave that overwhelmed her, knocked her flat on her back. Wave after wave rolled into her, one right after the other, too close to brace against.
Tucking her knees against her chin, she rolled to her side and squeezed herself into a ball.
Tears soaked her pillow as she bit the case, trying hard not to make a sound.
Downstairs, Sara was still throwing a hissy fit. Dishes and cups shattered. Who's the one who needs therapy? Amy wondered as her bedroom door creaked open slowly. Her breathing was ragged still.
"Slave?" It was Slappy, creeping into her room silent as a mouse.
Amy lifted her head, blinking away her tears, trying to see him. All she could see, however, was a huge pale blob with a shock of auburn.
"Breath," he said to her, the space beside her on her mattress sinking down with his weight.
The bed springs squeaked loudly as he sank down.
His hand was on her side, his thumb rubbing circles gently. His breath ghosted across her ear, her jaw, and a few droplets of spittle hit her cheek.
"I'm okay," she lied through chattering teeth, hoping she didn't chomp her tongue in two halves.
His hand drifted up to her rib cage, down to her thigh, and back again, over and over.
It was like the rocking of a crib, lulling her into a calm serenity, making her tears dry in flaky patches on her red cheeks and her breathing slow down; her muscles twitched and her skin quivered every few minutes, shaky energy rolling through her still.
She lifted her head briefly, managed to focus her eyes on him, and murmured, "Thanks."
With that, she laid her head back down onto the wet pillowcase and closed her eyes, listening to the sounds outside instead of Sara's furious complaining.
There were birds singing quietly and sprinklers hitting the sides of houses and cars roaring down the street. Geese hacked overhead, dogs barked at each other, and kids screamed at each other with laughter and yelled sports commands and profanities.
Over all of it, there was the sound of Slappy's hand shuffling against the fabric of her damp, cool shirt.
His hand felt almost warm.
When she woke up, it was early evening or maybe late afternoon.
She'd twisted to the other end of her bed, her feet on the pillow, sheets and blankets twisted around her, soaked in cold, flaky sweat, her thighs chafed, armpits wet. Her hair was everywhere, tangled and sticking up and stiff from dry sweat.
Faint sunlight cut through the curtains, across her eyelids, blinding her.
Downstairs, it was silent; she didn't hear Sara screaming or the crashing of dishes or the sounds of the outside world.
Slappy was gone, and the room felt painfully empty, cold even.
Absently, she wondered where he'd gone, but figured the quiet was nicer than a hissy fit from her entire family.
When she pulled herself upright, crumpled, her clothes crackled. The sheets tightened and she kicked her way out of them, stumbling out of the bed. Her legs buckled and she hit the ground; the fall jarred her teeth and made them click painfully.
A quick glance at the half-dead alarm clock told her it was close to five-thirty pm.
Maybe they were eating dinner, she thought, rubbing her aching elbow as she crawled to her feet. The room was almost dark, but a hint of light illuminated how empty her room was.
She hugged herself and picked at her tank top; it stank of sweat, musty and cold, chaffing her raw skin. Shaking her head, she decided to check things out downstairs, see why things were so quiet.
The stairs creaked and groaned under her weight as she descended, sending goosebumps all over the backs of her arms and shoulders.
A draft whipped at her, blowing back her hair, cooling the new sweat rolling down her face.
She wiped away the rivulets and peered down the stairs.
She could hear Sara twittering too low.
Frowning, Amy headed down the steps, praying she didn't step on the ones that squeaked, and the murmur, however faint, got louder and louder.
"She brought him back, Doc!" That was Mrs. Kramer, voice muffled with tears.
A soft shushing that was painfully familiar punctuated the end of her statement.
Amy held her breath and craned her head around the corner.
Dr. Palmer was standing in the middle of their foyer, his back to them. The tweed jacket he always wore had been swapped for a black turtleneck; his potbelly still protruded; and his hair was now completely bald. (Obviously, he'd lost what little hair he'd had the last time she saw him.)
"I'm sure there's a logical explanation for this," Dr. Palmer cooed as Mr. Kramer stroked his wife's hair gently, rocking her as she sobbed hysterically.
Sara stood off a few feet away, arms crossed over her massive breasts, one hip cocked out as she spoke quickly and quietly to the doctor, who was old enough to be their father.
Amy's foot slipped and her heel hit the edge of the last stair. The thud made every head snap towards her.
As if summoned by the impending intervention, Slappy slid out of the shadows and his eyes glowed not unlike a dog's, eerily blue. His face was granite white, blank as a canvas. Pieces of auburn waves fell into his face.
"Ding dong," he sang in a whispering voice, completely flat, "the bitch is back."
"Amy, how nice to see you," Dr. Palmer said with a huge smile.
Sara fluttered her lashes at him and flicked her hair over her shoulder with long, French-tipped nails. Behind his arm, she peeled her lips back in a sneer.
There was a smudge of red lipstick across her teeth.
"How not nice to see you," Amy told him in response.