Novela Fantastica #2

 Novela Fantastica 2

The Lotto Win

The sun was a relentless inferno over Tucson, Arizona, baking the streets and turning the air into a shimmering haze. Miguel Rivera, his face bronzed and lined from years of working under that same sun, stepped into the familiar coolness of *Mercado García*, the small Mexican market he’d been visiting for decades. The bell above the door jingled softly as he entered, and the comforting scents of fresh tortillas, simmering meats, and spices wrapped around him like an old friend.

Behind the counter, Luis, the young clerk who had practically grown up in the market, looked up from stacking cans of beans and broke into a grin. “¡Órale, don Miguel! ¿Qué tal?” he called out, wiping his hands on his apron. “¿Los tamales que pidió ya están listos, calientitos como siempre.”

Miguel tipped his cowboy hat and nodded, his voice warm but weary. “Gracias, mijo. Justo lo que necesito hoy.” He shuffled to the counter, pulling a crumpled lottery ticket from his pocket and handing it to Luis. “Mientras tanto, échame la mano con esto, ¿sí?”

Luis took the ticket with a chuckle. “Claro, don Miguel. A ver si hoy es su día de suerte.” He grabbed the scanner and started to process the ticket, his eyes flicking between the machine and Miguel, who had already unwrapped one of the tamales and taken a hearty bite.

“¡Cuidado, don Miguel!” Luis warned, pointing at the tamale. “Están bien calientes. No se vaya a quemar.”

Miguel waved him off with a laugh, though his mouth was full. “Ay, mijo, después de tantos años, ya estoy acostumbrado al calor—de los tamales y del sol.” He took another bite, the steam rising from the masa as he chewed.

The scanner beeped, and Luis froze. His eyes widened as he stared at the screen. He scanned it again, then a third time, his hands trembling. “Don Miguel…” he whispered, his voice barely audible. “No me va a creer… ¡Ganó el premio mayor! ¡Cincuenta millones de dólares!”

Miguel stopped mid-bite, the tamale hovering in his hand. His chest tightened, and suddenly the heat of the tamale seemed insignificant compared to the firestorm of emotions raging inside him. He dropped the tamale onto the counter, his breathing becoming shallow and labored. “¿Qué… qué dijiste?” he wheezed, clutching at his chest.

Luis rushed around the counter, his face pale with panic. “¡Siéntese, don Miguel! ¡Siéntese!” He dragged a chair over and guided Miguel into it. Miguel slumped down, his cowboy hat slipping off his head and landing on the floor. He grabbed it and began fanning himself furiously, his face slick with sweat.

“¿Necesita agua? ¿Su inhalador?” Luis asked, his voice frantic. Miguel nodded, fumbling in his pocket for his inhaler. He took a shaky puff, his breathing slowly easing as the medication took effect.

Luis hovered nearby, his hands fluttering nervously. “Don Miguel, esto es enorme… ¡Cincuenta millones! Su vida va a cambiar por completo.”

Miguel leaned back in the chair, his hat still in his hand, and stared at the ceiling. The weight of Luis’s words settled over him like a heavy blanket. “Cincuenta millones…” he repeated, his voice barely a whisper. “No lo puedo creer.”

Outside, the sun continued to blaze, but inside *Mercado García*, the world felt still, as if time itself had paused to let the moment sink in. Luis picked up the abandoned tamale and set it aside, then placed a hand on Miguel’s shoulder. “Felicidades, don Miguel,” he said softly. “Se lo merece.”

Miguel looked up at him, his eyes glistening with a mix of disbelief and gratitude. “Gracias, mijo,” he said hoarsely. “Pero creo que voy a necesitar otro tamale para asimilar esto.”

Luis laughed, the sound breaking the tension in the air. “Claro, don Miguel. Pero esta vez, déjelos enfriar un poco, ¿sí?”

Miguel chuckled weakly, his breathing finally steadying. As he sat there, the reality of his newfound fortune began to sink in, but all he could think about was the comforting familiarity of the market, the taste of the tamales, and the kindness of a young man who had been like family to him for years.

The weeks following Miguel’s lottery win were a whirlwind of chaos, indulgence, and regret. The quiet, hardworking landscaper who had spent decades under the Arizona sun was suddenly thrust into a life of opulence and excess—a life he wasn’t sure he wanted but felt compelled to chase. It was as if the $50 million had unlocked a door to a version of Miguel he didn’t recognize, a version desperate to prove something to the world, or maybe just to himself.

First came the mansion. Nestled in the foothills of the Santa Catalina Mountains, the sprawling estate was a far cry from the modest adobe home he had shared with his wife, Lupe, for over thirty years. The house had twelve bedrooms, a home theater, a wine cellar, and a pool that seemed to stretch on forever. Miguel walked through the empty halls, his boots echoing on the marble floors, and wondered how he’d ever fill all this space. But he bought it anyway, signing the papers with a shaky hand, as if the act itself could somehow justify the emptiness he felt inside.

Next came the Ferrari. Bright red and impossibly fast, it was the kind of car Miguel had only ever seen in movies. He drove it off the lot with a mix of exhilaration and guilt, the engine roaring like a beast unleashed. He told himself it was a reward for decades of hard work, but deep down, he knew it was something else—a desperate attempt to feel young again, to outrun the years that had slipped through his fingers.

But the most dramatic change came when Miguel filed for divorce. Lupe, his wife of thirty-five years, had stood by him through thick and thin, through droughts that ruined his landscaping business and winters so cold they could barely afford to heat their home. But now, with money burning a hole in his pocket, Miguel convinced himself that he needed a fresh start. He hired the best lawyers in Tucson, and within weeks, the papers were signed. Lupe didn’t fight him. She just looked at him with sad, knowing eyes and said, “El dinero te cambió, Miguel. Ya no eres el hombre que conocí.”

Her words haunted him. He tried to drown them out with the noise of his new life—parties at the mansion, late-night drives in the Ferrari, and the attention of women half his age who seemed to materialize out of nowhere. But no matter how fast he drove or how much he spent, he couldn’t escape the gnawing feeling that he’d made a terrible mistake.

One night, as he sat by the pool, a glass of expensive tequila in his hand, Miguel looked up at the stars and wondered how it had all gone so wrong. The mansion felt like a gilded cage, the Ferrari like a symbol of his own recklessness. And Lupe… Lupe was gone, her absence a gaping hole in his life that no amount of money could fill.

The only constant in his new, chaotic world was Max, his golden retriever. The dog followed him everywhere, his tail wagging, his eyes full of unconditional love. Miguel would sit on the floor of the mansion’s grand living room, his back against the cold marble wall, and let Max lick his face. In those moments, he felt a flicker of the peace he’d once known.

But peace was fleeting. The mansion, the Ferrari, the divorce—they were all symptoms of a midlife crisis that had spiraled out of control. And as Miguel stared into the night sky, he couldn’t help but wonder if it was too late to find his way back to the man he used to be.

Miguel was sitting in the dimly lit study of his new mansion, a glass of tequila in one hand and the TV remote in the other, when his phone buzzed on the mahogany desk. He glanced at the screen and saw his brother Beto’s name flashing. He hesitated for a moment, then answered. “¿Beto? ¿Qué pasa?”

Beto’s voice was sharp, laced with a tone Miguel hadn’t heard in years—a mix of desperation and calculation. “Hermano, necesitamos hablar. Es importante.”

Miguel sighed, leaning back in his leather chair. “Si es sobre dinero, ya te dije que no voy a darte más. Te di tu parte, y con eso basta.”

There was a pause on the other end, and then Beto’s voice dropped, low and threatening. “Mira, Miguel, no quiero hacer esto, pero si no me das lo que me corresponde, voy a tener que contarle a la familia algunas cosas que tal vez no quieren oír. ¿Te acuerdas de esos préstamos que tomaste hace años? ¿Y de las apuestas que hiciste en los gallos? No creo que Lupe o los niños sepan nada de eso, ¿verdad?”

Miguel’s grip tightened on the phone, his knuckles turning white. He could feel his blood pressure rising, the familiar tightness in his chest creeping in. “Beto,” he said, his voice steady but cold, “no me estás amenazando. No me importa lo que digas. Lo que hice en el pasado es cosa mía, y si quieres ir a contarle a todo el mundo, adelante. Pero no vas a sacarme ni un centavo más.”

Beto laughed, but it was hollow, forced. “Ahí vas otra vez, Miguel, siempre tan orgulloso. Pero el orgullo no te va a salvar cuando la familia se entere de todo. Piensa bien lo que estás haciendo.”

Miguel stood up, his voice rising. “¡Ya pensé bien, Beto! Tú no eres nadie para venir a chantajearme. Te di tu parte, y si no te basta, allá tú. Pero no voy a dejarme manipular por ti ni por nadie.”

There was a long silence on the other end, and for a moment, Miguel thought Beto might hang up. But then his brother spoke again, his voice quieter now, almost pleading. “Miguel, no tiene que ser así. Solo quiero lo que es justo. No me dejes en la calle, hermano.”

Miguel closed his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose. He could feel the weight of the conversation pressing down on him, his asthma flaring up as his breathing grew shallow. “Beto,” he said finally, his voice tired but firm, “lo justo ya lo recibiste. No voy a discutir más contigo. Si quieres quemar puentes, allá tú. Pero no cuentes conmigo.”

Before Beto could respond, Miguel ended the call and set the phone down on the desk. He reached for his inhaler, taking a deep puff as he tried to steady his breathing. The room felt suffocating, the walls of his mansion closing in around him. He looked down at Max, who was lying at his feet, tail thumping softly against the floor. The dog looked up at him with those big, trusting eyes, and Miguel felt a pang of guilt. Even Max seemed to sense the tension, the weight of the choices Miguel had made.

He knelt down, scratching Max behind the ears. “Tú sí que no me pides nada, ¿verdad, mi hijo?” he murmured. The dog licked his hand, and for a moment, Miguel felt a flicker of peace. But it was short-lived. The call with Beto had left a bitter taste in his mouth, a reminder that money couldn’t buy loyalty—or silence.

The sun was setting over Tucson, casting long shadows across the sprawling grounds of Miguel’s mansion. He was in the middle of refilling Max’s water bowl when his phone rang. The caller ID flashed *Thompson Landscaping*, and Miguel’s stomach tightened. He hadn’t spoken to his former boss since quitting abruptly after winning the lottery. He hesitated, then answered. “Hello?”

“Miguel,” came the gruff voice of Mr. Thompson, his tone sharp and clipped. “We need to talk. Now.”

Miguel sighed, setting the water bowl down. “Look, Mr. Thompson, I already told you—I’m not coming back. I’m done with landscaping.”

There was a pause on the other end, and when Thompson spoke again, his voice was low, almost menacing. “You think it’s that simple, huh? You just walk out on me, leave me high and dry in the middle of the busiest season, and that’s it? You’ve got some nerve, Miguel.”

Miguel rubbed his temples, feeling the familiar pressure building in his chest. “I gave you two weeks’ notice,” he said, trying to keep his voice calm. “And I helped train the new guy. What more do you want from me?”

“What do I want?” Thompson snapped. “I want you to come back and finish what you started. You were my best guy, Miguel. You knew every client, every job, every detail. Now I’m losing contracts because you decided to bail. You think just because you hit the jackpot, you can screw me over?”

Miguel’s patience was wearing thin. “I didn’t screw you over, Mr. Thompson. I worked for you for twenty years. I gave you everything I had. Now it’s my turn to live my life. I’m sorry if that’s inconvenient for you, but that’s how it is.”

Thompson’s laugh was harsh, devoid of humor. “Your turn, huh? You think you’re better than me now, with your fancy house and your fancy car? Let me tell you something, Miguel—you’re nothing without me. I gave you a job when no one else would. I made you who you are.”

Miguel’s jaw tightened. “You didn’t make me, Mr. Thompson. I worked for every penny I earned. And I don’t owe you anything.”

There was a long silence, and when Thompson spoke again, his voice was cold, each word dripping with venom. “You’re going to regret this, Miguel. You think you’re untouchable now, but you’re not. I’ll make sure you pay for what you’ve done. You ruined my business, and I’m not going to let you walk away scot-free.”

Miguel’s hand clenched around the phone, his breathing growing shallow. “Are you threatening me?” he asked, his voice steady but laced with anger.

“Call it whatever you want,” Thompson said. “But you’d better watch your back. This isn’t over.”

The line went dead, and Miguel stood there, his heart pounding. He set the phone down and reached for his inhaler, taking a deep puff as he tried to calm himself. The threat hung in the air like a storm cloud, dark and ominous. He looked out the window at his Ferrari parked in the driveway, the sleek red car gleaming in the fading light. It was supposed to be a symbol of his freedom, his success, but now it felt like a target.

Max trotted over, nudging Miguel’s hand with his wet nose. Miguel knelt down, scratching the dog’s ears. “Qué lío, ¿verdad, Max?” he murmured. The dog licked his face, and for a moment, Miguel felt a flicker of comfort. But the weight of Thompson’s words lingered, a reminder that his new life came with its own set of dangers—and that not everyone was happy about his good fortune.

The night was warm, the desert air carrying a faint chill as Miguel sped down the empty highway in his Ferrari. The purr of the engine usually calmed him, but tonight, his mind was racing. The threats from Thompson, the fallout with Beto, and the emptiness of his mansion weighed heavily on him. He just wanted to get home, pour himself a drink, and sit with Max for a while.

As he approached a dimly lit intersection on the outskirts of town, a figure suddenly darted into the road. Miguel slammed on the brakes, the tires screeching as the Ferrari skidded to a halt just inches from the person. His heart pounded in his chest, and he gripped the steering wheel, trying to catch his breath.

The figure stepped into the glow of the headlights, and Miguel’s blood ran cold. It was a man, disheveled and wild-eyed, his clothes ragged and his hair a tangled mess. He was grinning, but it wasn’t a friendly smile—it was unnerving, almost predatory. He walked slowly toward the car, his movements jerky and erratic.

Miguel’s hand instinctively reached for the door lock, clicking it shut. “Hey, buddy, you okay?” he called out, his voice shaky. “You almost got yourself killed!”

The man didn’t respond. Instead, he leaned down, pressing his face against the driver’s side window, his breath fogging up the glass. His eyes locked onto Miguel’s, wide and unblinking. “Nice car,” he said, his voice a raspy whisper. “Real nice. Must be nice to have all that money, huh? Real nice.”

Miguel’s stomach churned. “Look, I don’t want any trouble,” he said, trying to sound firm. “Step away from the car.”

The man laughed, a high-pitched, manic sound that sent a shiver down Miguel’s spine. “Trouble? Oh, no trouble, amigo. Just wanted to say hi. You know, welcome you to the neighborhood.” He tapped on the window with a dirty fingernail, the sound sharp and deliberate. “You’re the lottery guy, right? The one with the big house and the pretty wife? Or… ex-wife, I guess. Too bad about that.”

Miguel’s blood turned to ice. How did this guy know about Lupe? “Who are you?” he demanded, his voice rising. “What do you want?”

The man’s grin widened, revealing yellowed teeth. “Just a fan,” he said, his tone dripping with mockery. “A big fan. You’re living the dream, man. The American dream. But dreams… they can turn into nightmares real quick. You ever think about that?”

Miguel’s hand hovered over the gearshift, ready to floor it if the man made any sudden moves. “Get away from the car,” he said again, his voice trembling now. “I’m warning you.”

The man straightened up, still grinning, and took a step back. “Alright, alright. Don’t get your panties in a twist. I’ll let you go… for now.” He winked, a grotesque, exaggerated gesture that made Miguel’s skin crawl. “But hey, if you ever need a friend, you know where to find me. I’m always around.”

With that, the man turned and shuffled off into the darkness, his laughter echoing behind him. Miguel sat there for a moment, his hands shaking on the wheel, his breathing shallow and uneven. He fumbled for his inhaler, taking a quick puff to steady himself.

When he finally pulled away, he couldn’t shake the feeling that the man’s eyes were still on him, watching from the shadows. The rest of the drive home was a blur, his mind racing with questions. Who was that guy? How did he know so much? And what did he want?

As he pulled into the driveway of his mansion, Miguel felt a wave of relief wash over him. Max was waiting at the door, tail wagging furiously, his big, trusting eyes full of love. Miguel knelt down, letting the dog lick his face, the warmth of Max’s affection grounding him.

But even as he locked the door behind him, the encounter lingered in his mind, a dark reminder that his new life wasn’t just filled with luxury and freedom—it also came with dangers he hadn’t anticipated. And for the first time, Miguel wondered if the price of his fortune was higher than he’d ever imagined.

It was past midnight when the doorbell rang, a sharp, insistent chime that cut through the quiet of Miguel’s mansion. He had been sitting in the living room, a glass of tequila in hand, trying to unwind after the chaotic events of the day. The faint strains of Vicente Fernández’s *Volver, Volver* still played softly in the background, a comforting reminder of home. But the doorbell shattered the moment, and Miguel’s heart sank as he glanced at the clock. *Who could it be at this hour?*

Max, who had been dozing at his feet, perked up, letting out a low growl. Miguel set his glass down and walked to the door, peering through the peephole. Standing on his porch was Mrs. Whitaker, his elderly neighbor from across the street. Her wiry gray hair stuck out in all directions, and she was wrapped in a tattered floral robe that hung loosely on her frail frame. Her eyes, magnified by thick glasses, seemed to bore into the door as if she could see him through it. She rang the bell again, her bony finger jabbing at the button with unsettling urgency.

Miguel sighed and opened the door, forcing a polite smile. “Mrs. Whitaker? Is everything okay? It’s late—”

“Late?” she interrupted, her voice shrill and accusatory. “Yes, it’s late, Mr. Rivera. Too late for that *noise* you call music!” She pointed a trembling finger toward his house, her eyes narrowing behind her glasses. “I’ve been listening to it for hours. Hours! Do you have any idea what time it is?”

Miguel blinked, caught off guard. “I’m sorry if the music bothered you, but it wasn’t that loud. I had it turned down—”

“Loud enough!” she snapped, cutting him off again. Her voice dropped to a whisper, but it was no less menacing. “You think just because you have money now, you can do whatever you want? Blasting your *Mexican* music at all hours, disturbing the peace? This is a respectable neighborhood, Mr. Rivera. Not some… some *fiesta*!”

Miguel’s jaw tightened, but he kept his tone calm. “Mrs. Whitaker, I apologize if the music disturbed you. I’ll make sure it’s quieter next time. But it’s my house, and I have a right to play the music I like.”

Her eyes widened, and for a moment, she looked almost unhinged. “Your house?” she hissed, leaning closer. Her breath smelled faintly of mothballs and something sour. “Your house is a blight on this street. A monstrosity. And you… you’re a blight too. Coming here, flaunting your money, your cars, your… your *lifestyle*. You don’t belong here, Mr. Rivera. And if you don’t start showing some respect, you’ll regret it.”

Miguel took a step back, unnerved by the intensity of her words. “Mrs. Whitaker, I think you should go home. It’s late, and we can talk about this tomorrow if you want.”

She didn’t move. Instead, she smiled—a crooked, unsettling grin that sent a chill down Miguel’s spine. “Oh, we’ll talk, Mr. Rivera. But not tomorrow. Soon. Very soon.” She leaned in even closer, her voice dropping to a whisper. “You think you’re untouchable, don’t you? But I’ve been watching you. I see everything. And I know things… things you wouldn’t want anyone else to know.”

Miguel’s stomach churned. “What are you talking about?”

She straightened up, her smile widening. “You’ll find out,” she said cryptically. Then, without another word, she turned and shuffled back down the driveway, her robe trailing behind her like a shadow.

Miguel closed the door, his heart racing. He locked it and leaned against the frame, trying to steady his breathing. Max nuzzled his hand, whining softly, as if sensing his distress. Miguel knelt down, scratching the dog’s ears. “Qué pedo con esa señora, ¿verdad, Max?” he muttered. “Está más loca que una cabra.”

But even as he tried to laugh it off, Mrs. Whitaker’s words lingered in his mind. Her threats, her eerie smile, the way she seemed to know things she shouldn’t—it all left him feeling unsettled. His mansion, his Ferrari, his new life… none of it felt like the sanctuary it was supposed to be. And as he turned off the music and sat in the silence, Miguel couldn’t shake the feeling that he was being watched—not just by Mrs. Whitaker, but by something darker, something he couldn’t quite name.

Miguel was still reeling from Mrs. Whitaker’s unsettling visit when his phone buzzed on the coffee table. He glanced at the screen and froze. It was Lupe. His ex-wife hadn’t called him in months, not since the divorce was finalized. His stomach knotted as he picked up the phone. “Lupe? ¿Qué pasa?”

At first, there was only silence. Then, faintly, he heard the sound of heavy breathing—slow, deliberate, and unnervingly close to the receiver. “Lupe?” he said again, his voice tighter now. “¿Estás ahí?”

The breathing continued, rhythmic and unsettling, like someone was savoring the moment. Finally, her voice came through, low and dripping with venom. “Miguel… I’ve been thinking about you. About *us.*”

Miguel’s grip on the phone tightened. “Lupe, it’s late. If you have something to say, just say it.”

She laughed softly, but there was no warmth in it—only bitterness. “You think you’re so smart, don’t you? Leaving me for that… that *niña* you call a wife. But you’ll see, Miguel. You’ll see what happens when you throw away thirty-five years like they were nothing.”

The line went silent again, except for the sound of her breathing. Miguel’s chest tightened, his asthma flaring up as he struggled to stay calm. “Lupe, I didn’t call you to fight. If you’re upset, we can talk about it, but not like this.”

“Upset?” she hissed, her voice rising. “You think I’m *upset*? No, Miguel. I’m not upset. I’m *waiting.* And when the time comes, you’ll wish you’d never left me.”

Before he could respond, the line went dead. Miguel sat there, the phone still pressed to his ear, his heart pounding. Max whined softly, nuzzling his hand, but Miguel barely noticed. The call, the heavy breathing, the threats—it all felt like a nightmare he couldn’t wake up from. He set the phone down and reached for his inhaler, his hands shaking as he took a puff.

For the first time in weeks, Miguel felt truly alone. The mansion, the Ferrari, the money—none of it mattered. All he had was Max, and even that didn’t feel like enough. As he sat in the silence, he couldn’t shake the feeling that his past was closing in on him, and there was no escape.

The house was silent except for the relentless *drip, drip, drip* echoing through the halls. Miguel woke with a start, his chest tight, his breathing shallow and labored. The sound was faint but persistent, like a metronome ticking away in the darkness. He fumbled for his inhaler on the nightstand, his hands trembling as he took a quick puff. The tightness in his chest eased slightly, but his heart was still racing, his blood pressure spiking from the sudden wakefulness.

He reached out blindly into the darkness beside his bed, his fingers searching for the warm, familiar presence of Max. A wet tongue brushed against his hand, and he felt the dog’s soft fur as Max licked him gently. “Hey, boy,” Miguel whispered, his voice hoarse. “You hear that too, huh?”

The dripping continued, louder now, or maybe it just felt that way in the stillness of the night. Miguel swung his legs over the side of the bed, his bare feet hitting the cool marble floor. He grabbed his robe and slipped it on, the fabric brushing against his skin like a ghostly touch. Max followed him as he stepped into the hallway, the dog’s nails clicking softly against the floor.

The sound led him to the kitchen. The faucet was dripping, a steady stream of water falling into the sink. Miguel frowned. He was sure he’d turned it off before bed. He reached out and tightened the knob, the dripping stopping abruptly. The sudden silence was almost as unsettling as the sound itself.

He stood there for a moment, staring at the sink, his mind racing. Was he losing it? Forgetting things? Or was something else going on? The events of the day—Beto’s blackmail, Thompson’s threats, the creepy man on the road, Mrs. Whitaker’s visit, Lupe’s call—all of it swirled in his head like a storm he couldn’t escape.

Miguel collapsed into his bed, Max’s breathing pulling him back to the present. Miguel reached down, his hand finding the dog’s head in the darkness. He scratched the top of Max’s head, the dog breathing softly in the night. “You’re the only one I can trust, huh, mi hijo?” he murmured. Max licked his hand, and for a moment, Miguel felt a flicker of peace.

As he lay down, Miguel stared at the ceiling, the silence of the house pressing down on him. The dripping had stopped, but the unease remained, a quiet dread that lingered in the shadows. He closed his eyes, trying to steady his breathing, but sleep didn’t come easily. The night stretched on, long and restless, and Miguel couldn’t shake the feeling that something was wrong. 

The *drip, drip, drip* returned, louder this time, relentless and echoing through the cavernous halls of the mansion. Miguel woke with a gasp, his chest constricting as if an invisible hand were squeezing the air from his lungs. His asthma was worse than ever, each breath a desperate, wheezing struggle. His heart pounded in his ears, his blood pressure skyrocketing as the sound drilled into his skull. He reached out blindly into the darkness beside his bed, his fingers trembling as they searched for Max. A wet tongue brushed against his hand, and he felt the dog’s soft fur as Max licked him gently. “Max…” Miguel whispered, his voice barely audible over the sound of his own labored breathing. “You hear that, boy?”

The dripping was deafening now, a maddening rhythm that seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere at once. Miguel forced himself out of bed, his legs unsteady beneath him. He grabbed his inhaler and took another puff, but it did little to ease the tightness in his chest. The sound led him to the guest bathroom, the one he knew had a leaky faucet. He tightened the knob as best he could, his hands shaking so badly he could barely grip it. The dripping stopped, and for a moment, there was silence.

Miguel turned to head back to his room, but just as he reached the doorway, the dripping started again—louder, sharper, more insistent than before. It was coming from the main bathroom now. His heart raced as he stumbled toward the sound, his breathing ragged and uneven. He pushed open the bathroom door, the dripping echoing off the tiles. The sink was dry, the faucet silent. The sound was clearly coming from the shower.

He hesitated, his hand hovering over the fibreglass shower door. His chest tightened further, his vision blurring at the edges. With a trembling hand, he pulled the door open.

What he saw made his blood run cold.

There, attached to the shower faucet, was Max’s severed head. The golden retriever’s lifeless eyes stared blankly ahead, his tongue lolling out of his mouth. Blood dripped steadily from the stump of his neck, pooling briefly before swirling down the drain. The sound of the dripping blood was deafening, each drop a hammer blow to Miguel’s already fragile sanity.

“No… no, no, no…” Miguel choked out, his voice breaking. He stumbled back, his legs giving out beneath him as he collapsed to the floor. His chest seized, a crushing pain radiating through his body. He clutched at his heart, gasping for air that wouldn’t come. His vision darkened, the edges closing in as the sound of the dripping faded into a distant, hollow echo.

The last thing he saw was Max’s lifeless eyes, staring at him from the shower. The last thing he felt was the cold, unyielding tile beneath him. And then, nothing.

AtilA