“He’s rabid,” mutters one of the retrieval mutts. “Nah,” says Ruben, before he shoves a cloth sack with a breathing mesh over my head, “just mad.” I’m still laughing as they begin strapping me, upright, to the wheeled gurney with more heavy metal chains. By the time they’re done, Xander and I are covered neck to toe in obsidian with not an inch left to wriggle. Hannibal Lecter, my personal god, has nothing on us. As they wheel me to my own vehicle, I squeal a high-pitched, “Weeeee!”
