Scooby-Doo had long finished the sandwiches Shaggy had left him earlier that night.

He was now lounging on the couch after a long nap. But he couldn't shake the feeling that something was off.

Scooby had a good intuition; he could usually tell when something was wrong. The way Shaggy had been acting over the past few days concerned him.

Ever since Scooby remembered waking up in the vet clinic, Shaggy had been different, almost like a shell of what he used to be.

Shaggy was never hungry, always giving the rest of his food to Scooby.

He was never happy, always hiding in his room, locked away from the world.

Scooby couldn't remember anything from before he was taken to the clinic. All he knew was they arrived at the Crescent Hill Preserve and had some food in Barny's cafeteria.

That was all.

Nothing more.

Nothing less.

But why was Shaggy so different?

Scooby turned restlessly, trying to fall back asleep.

He looked at the ticking clock on the TV stand. It was 2 AM. He was worried.

Where was Shaggy?

Was he okay?

Scooby remembered what Shaggy told him about going to a "funeral," whatever that meant.

And then he remembered Velma and Daphne. They were probably with him too.

Were they solving a mystery?

Were they with Fred?

With these thoughts swirling in his head, Scooby managed to drift into a restless sleep, unaware of what would await him.

IIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII

Shaggy pulled into his usual parking spot at his apartment complex just outside of Coolsville. It was the kind of area the average person would not want to visit.

The small, beat-up apartment Shaggy owned was all he could afford. He'd dropped out of culinary school years ago and opted to figure things out while he worked as a waiter at a local diner.

And Shaggy still hadn't figured things out.

Especially now.

The pitch-dark atmosphere made the two-story complex look sketchier than it really was. The lampposts flickered against the cracked siding. A small cloud of smoke was coming from under the wooden balcony stairs, signaling to Shaggy that Ed was hanging outside for his usual late-night smoke.

Shaggy approached the building, and, sure enough, Ed was leaning against the stair railing with a cigarette hanging from his mouth. He was a heavy-weight man of about thirty or forty years of age (Shaggy was too scared to ask for details).

Ed was a neighbor of Shaggy's who was always around for a quick chat. He was always friendly, save for his ex-wife, who kept Shaggy up at night with her constant screaming and berating.

But Shaggy had a sense that Ed was lonely, even with the freedom of divorcing his horrible wife.

What it felt like to be truly lonely, Shaggy didn't know, and he certainly didn't understand what Ed was going through.

Until now.

"Rough day?"

Ed's scratchy voice pierced through the night's silence as Shaggy approached him. As he came into the light of the lamppost, Ed raised his eyebrows. "What the hell happened to you?"

Shaggy didn't want to respond. He just wanted to go upstairs and sleep.

But his mouth defied him. "A fire."

Ed's eyes widened. "A fire?"

Shaggy nodded, gesturing to his singed sleeves and bandaged face. "Like, yeah. Just got back from the hospital."

"Oh, my God!"

Shaggy grimaced as he started towards the stairs. "Like, yeah. A real mess. But I've gotta –

"Was it the Blakes' place?"

Shaggy stopped in his tracks. His breath hitched. "Huh?"

Ed stood there for a moment, his eyes narrowing. "Were you involved in that fire at the Blakes'? I saw it on my TV! It's all over the news!"

Shaggy felt weak in the knees.

This was just what they all needed. Another way for all eyes to be on them. First it was Fred. Now it was the fire.

Shaggy rubbed his eyes. "Yeah . . . Yeah. You know I'm friends with Daphne Blake, their daughter. I just dropped her off after the funeral –

Ed bowed his head as he released another cloud of smoke. "I – I'm real sorry about your friend."

"Thanks."

Shaggy had no idea what else to say. He just stood there, sopping wet and gripping his suit jacket, which was beyond ruined.

Ed sighed. "Well . . . You go home. I'm sure Scooby's waiting for you."

Shaggy gave Ed a weak smile as he started up the stairs.

"Wait!"

Shaggy spun around again.

"Do – Do you know who did it? The fire?"

Shaggy shook his head. "No. And I doubt they'll ever figure it out."

Ed nodded slowly. "Sorry. I was just wondering . . . they said there were no current suspects on the TV."

But Shaggy was already moving upstairs and to his front door, feeling utter dread as he began to unlock the door.

He knew he would have to tell Scooby.

And that made him hurt the most.