Vicious by Kevin O'Brien

drifted across the back stoop. Moira squinted at it: a Three Musketeers wrapper.
    Stepping back, she closed the kitchen door and locked it. That was when she noticed the dirt footprints on the kitchen floor. Were they there before? Or had someone just made them a few minutes ago—when he’d come in from those woods?
    She tried to determine where the footprints were headed, but the dirt marks faded in the middle of the kitchen—about halfway to the basement door, which was open.
    That door had been closed earlier; Moira was almost certain of it.
    “Shit,” she whispered. Paralyzed, she stared at the darkness beyond the open doorway and those first few steps down. The poker shook in her sweaty, trembling hand.
    Moira’s breathing grew heavier as she started toward the cellar stairs. She didn’t see a light switch near the basement door, so she reached past the doorway and felt around for a switch on the wall. She found it and turned on the light. “Who’s down there?” she demanded.
    Slowly she descended the stairs, but only a few steps. The place was unfinished and dirty—with cobwebs between exposed pipes running along the ceiling. There was a dust- and lint-covered washer and dryer, and a laundry sink. Garden equipment, collapsed folding patio chairs, a big, blue plastic kiddy pool, and two bicycles that looked broken leaned against one wall. There was a workbench, cluttered with tools, and a couple of old paint cans. In the corner, where a ceiling light was out, stood the furnace and a hot-water tank. She couldn’t tell if anyone was hiding back there or not. She noticed another door, which was closed. It looked like it might be a closet or a storage room. She didn’t want to go down any farther and check.
    Suddenly, she heard a noise above her. The floorboards were creaking. Moira glanced up and saw a shadow move across the cellar doorway. She told herself it was probably those damn moths again—but she couldn’t be sure. If it was an intruder, he could switch off the light down here. Any moment now, she could be helpless, swallowed up in darkness.
    Upstairs, a door shut, and Moira jumped. It was too far away to be the kitchen door. “Who’s up there?” she yelled.
    No response. But there was more noise. It sounded like they were closer.
    Biting her lip, she remained frozen on the stairs. “Goddamn it, who’s up there?”
    Someone started pounding on the back door. Moira recoiled at the sound. “Oh, Jesus,” she whispered, tightly clutching the fireplace poker.
    She heard the doorknob rattling, and then a muted voice: “Moira! Moira, are you in there?”
    It sounded like Jordan. Catching her breath, she raced back up the stairs and saw him on the other side of the window in the kitchen door. He and Leo were wet and shirtless. Leo slouched against his friend as if he were half dead. Jordan pounded on the door again. “Moira, c’mon, let us in!”
    She hurried to the door, unlocked it, and swung it open. “My God, what happened?”
    “He needs some juice,” Jordan said. Helping Leo into the kitchen, he left their shirts and the bath towels in a heap on the back stoop. “C’mon, buddy.” He sat Leo down at the kitchen table.
    Leo appeared dazed. He struggled to talk, but no words came out.
    Moira set the poker on the counter and then ran to the refrigerator. Pulling out a carton of orange juice, she opened it and took it to Leo. But he was in too much of a stupor to reach for it. Jordan grabbed the carton instead. “Thanks,” he said. Sitting down next to his friend, he put the open end of the juice container to Leo’s mouth. “C’mon, drink this….”
    Moira hovered over them, uncertain what to do. She knew about Leo’s diabetes, but had never been with him when he’d had an episode. She watched the orange juice spill past Leo’s lips and run down his neck to his bare chest. He was shaking.
    “Swallow it, buddy, c’mon.” Jordan tipped his friend’s head back and tried to pour the