Read an Excerpt
ROTTENI grab my bag from the car and head for the side door. There's not much furniture in the front room of our house -- just a TV, an old couch, a low table, and, most nights, me -- so when I bang through the side door, make the right, and head in there to drop my stuff, I don't bother to switch on the light. Sure enough, I slam my shin into something and go down in a heap. I realize mid-fall that it must be the coffee table. I realize post-fall that mom must have moved it while I was away. I grab my shin and swear, but my voice is drowned out by the noise suddenly filling the room. It makes even less sense than the table being out of place. It's still dark and all I can see are stars from hitting my shin, so for a second I think maybe I'm imagining it or it's coming from the TV. But the TV is off and the sound keeps coming: It's a dog, barking its head off, barking at me. It makes no sense: We don't have a dog. We never have. I look around the dark room, trying to figure out where it is. It sounds close, and I don't want to get leg-humped or mauled or rabies. I reach up and sort of cover my face, so that I'm looking out through my spread fingers. Just as my eyes are beginning to adjust to the dark, the light flips on and I see my mom standing at the edge of the room. "Don't worry," she says. "He's new." It takes me a moment to realize she's talking to the dog.