Chapter 2

I got out of bed, my movements stiff. The memory of freezing to death was so real, I could still feel the phantom cold in my bones. I walked into the living room, and there he was.

Buddy. A beautiful, seemingly innocent golden retriever, wagging his tail and licking my mother' s hand. She was already captivated, her face soft with an adoration I hadn't seen directed at me in years.

"Isn't he just the sweetest thing, Sarah?" she asked, her voice full of joy.

I stared at the dog. He met my gaze, and for a split second, the happy-dog facade dropped. His eyes were cold, ancient, and filled with a chilling intelligence. The corner of his mouth twitched. It was the beginning of that smirk.

Then, just as quickly, he was a normal dog again, panting happily.

"Yeah," I said, my voice flat. "Sweet."

This time, I would watch. I would see everything.

In my first life, I had been too busy, too exhausted, too beaten down to notice the little things. Now, they were all I could see. I watched how Buddy never begged for food like a normal dog. He would simply sit by the table and stare at my parents until they felt an overwhelming urge to give him their own portions.

I saw how he would subtly position himself between me and my parents whenever I tried to have a conversation with them. He' d nudge their hands for a pet or let out a soft whine, drawing their attention away from me. It was masterful manipulation, and they were completely oblivious.

I needed to test him. I needed proof that what I was seeing was real.

One afternoon, I took a piece of dried jerky from our emergency stash. My parents were in the other room, mesmerized by some cheap television show. Buddy was lying on his plush bed, pretending to be asleep.

I walked over to the tall, rickety bookshelf in the corner. I placed the jerky on the very top shelf, tucked behind a thick book, completely out of sight and reach for any normal dog.

"There," I whispered to myself. "Let's see you get that."

I went to my room and left the door slightly ajar, watching the living room through the crack. For almost an hour, Buddy didn't move. I started to wonder if I had imagined it all, if grief and trauma had broken my mind.

Then, he lifted his head. He looked toward my parents' room, then toward my door. He knew I was watching. He stood up, stretched, and casually trotted over to the bookshelf.

What he did next made my heart stop.

He didn't jump. He didn't bark or whine. He looked at the bookshelf, tilting his head as if he were studying a complex puzzle. Then, he nudged the base of the shelf with his nose. Gently at first, then with more force.

The old bookshelf wobbled. He nudged it again, in a rhythmic, calculated way. It began to rock back and forth, the books on top starting to slide. He wasn't trying to knock it over. He was trying to dislodge one specific item.

The piece of jerky, vibrated by the movement, slid to the edge of the shelf and fell to the floor.

Buddy calmly picked it up, trotted back to his bed, and ate it. Then he looked directly at the crack in my door, directly at me, and I saw it again. The full, arrogant smirk. He knew that I knew.

A wave of nausea washed over me. This thing in our house was not a dog.

Just as I was processing this, a loud banging came from our front door. My father opened it to find our landlord, a fat, sweaty man named Mr. Henderson.

"Miller," he said, not bothering with pleasantries. "Bad news. The owner sold the building. New management is doubling the rent, effective the first of next month. Pay up or get out."

The news hit us like a physical blow. Double the rent? We could barely afford what we were paying now.

My mother started to cry. "What are we going to do, Mark? We'll be on the street!"

Panic seized them. The same panic I remembered from my first life. But this time, their first thought wasn't about our survival.

My father looked at Buddy, who had come to stand beside him. "Don't worry," he said, stroking the dog's head. "Whatever happens, we'll make sure Buddy is safe and comfortable."

My mother nodded through her tears. "Yes, of course. We have to protect him."

They didn't even look at me. In the face of impending homelessness, their primary concern was the creature that had invaded our lives.

They started frantically discussing what they could sell, what few possessions we had that might be worth something. I stood there, invisible to them, a ghost in my own home.

In my first life, their neglect had killed me. This time, I wouldn't let it.

As they panicked, a cold, clear plan formed in my mind. They had chosen their side. Now, I would choose mine. I would not be their workhorse, their provider, their forgotten daughter.

I would survive. And I would do it on my own.

I walked back to my room and quietly closed the door. I had to get out. But before I did, I had to expose that thing for what it was. I had to know what it wanted.

My new life depended on it.