1 My sister told me there was a dog at her place that needed feeding. It turned out to be a blind woman. For two weeks, I lived under the impression that my sister, Serena, was a high-functioning psychopath. I fed this woman, I “walked” her, and I supervised her baths. She went from screaming at me to get out, to silently pressing the leash into my palm. I thought I was taming a stray, a broken creature that had lost its mind. Until the middle of the night, when I felt her tongue dart out to lick the back of my hand. Terrified, I ducked into the hallway and FaceTimed Serena. “The person you’re keeping here is crossing lines!” I hissed, my voice trembling. “She just licked me!” Serena stared at the background behind me for a long, agonizing minute. Her silence was deafening. “Miles,” she finally said, her voice small. “That’s not my house.” “What are you talking about?” “I sold that place three months ago. Didn’t I tell you? I moved to the North Side.” She swallowed hard, her eyes wide with realization on the screen. “You broke into someone’s home… and you’ve been treating a stranger like a pet for fifteen days.” “You’re dead,” she whispered. “You are absolutely finished.” It started when I moved to the city for a new job. To save on rent, I’d called Serena to see if I could crash at her place. She was away on a business trip and told me to just grab the key from under the planter. “Look after the new puppy while you’re there,” she’d said over the phone. “He’s a black lab mix, a bit temperamental and shy around strangers. If he acts up, don’t be afraid to be firm. He needs to know who’s boss.” When I arrived at the old brick walk-up, I found the key exactly where she said it would be. I let myself in. The layout was exactly as I remembered from a visit years ago. “Puppy? Come here, boy!” I whistled, dropping my bags. I heard movement in the master bedroom. Smiling, I pushed the door open. “Who’s a bad boy? Who wants a treat?” The room was dim, the heavy velvet curtains drawn tight. The air felt heavy, stagnant. A woman stood by the window in a thin silk nightgown. Her hair was ink-black, spilling over her pale, sharp shoulders. Around her ankle was a sleek, glowing electronic band—a medical telemetry monitor, I assumed. Her eyes were wide, beautiful, and completely vacant. She didn’t look at me; she looked through me. “Who are you?” she rasped. Her voice was like dry leaves. I closed the door, my heart skipping. I pulled out my phone and re-read Serena’s text. New puppy. Black hair. Needs to be restrained. It all clicked in the most horrific way possible. I took thirty seconds to accept the fact that my sister was a kidnapper. She had abducted a sophisticated, blind, and heartbreakingly fragile woman. But Serena was family. And I had just signed a contract for my dream job in this city. I couldn’t call the police without ruining both our lives. I decided I would “care” for this poor soul until Serena got back, at which point I’d convince her to turn herself in. Assuming the role of the “kidnapper’s accomplice,” I didn’t dare reveal my name. I told her I was the new help. “Get out,” she spat. Her temper was vile. But then again, if I were chained up in a dark room, I wouldn’t be winning any congeniality awards either. I called Serena back, trying to sound casual. “What’s the… guest’s name? I want to make sure she’s comfortable.” “Are you losing your mind?” Serena laughed. “It’s a dog, Miles. Don’t personify it. Just call it ‘Dog.’ It’ll wag its tail if you have food. Don’t be a weirdo.” I felt a cold shiver go down my spine. Serena had even stripped her of her name. How had my sister, the girl who grew up in a small town and worked her way to the top of the corporate ladder, become this cruel? Was the city this soul-crushing? I couldn’t bring myself to call a human being “Dog.” I scoured the apartment and found a set of IDs in a mahogany desk. The woman in the photo was radiant, her eyes full of life and authority. Her name was Sloane Whitaker. According to the ID, she was from a wealthy family out of Chicago. Serena had dragged her hundreds of miles away. My sister was a monster. Once I settled into the “nanny” persona, Sloane stopped asking questions. She would sit on the edge of the bed for hours, a ghost in a silk shroud. The fridge was empty except for expensive red wine. She was skin and bones, her collarbones protruding like wings. I went to the grocery store with a hat pulled low, dodging every security camera. If Serena was going to prison, I was at least going to make sure Sloane didn’t starve first. I cooked a three-course meal and invited her to the table. Sloane’s face remained a mask of cold fury. The light on her ankle monitor pulsed red. The display on the bedside hub, which I’d figured out how to read, showed her status: Agitated. “Did they not tell you the rules?” she asked, her sightless gaze fixed on a corner of the ceiling. “I didn’t ask for food. Leave.” “They?” I whispered. My hand shook as I set the plate down. Serena wasn’t alone. She was part of a syndicate. In the dim light, I saw the faint scars on Sloane’s arms—bruises from walking into furniture, and sharper marks that looked like they’d been inflicted on purpose. I felt sick. Sloane didn’t notice my inner turmoil. She reached out and swept the plate off the table with a violent crash. “Are you deaf? I said get out.” Despite her blindness, she carried an aura of such immense power that I actually flinched. The sins of the sister, I thought. I had to make amends. I had to keep her alive so she could testify later. “Please eat,” I said, my voice soft but firm. “If you don’t eat, you won’t have the strength to run when the time comes.” The monitor showed her health vitals at an all-time low. Red lights everywhere: Irritation. Disgust. I was desperate. I called Serena again. “The ‘puppy’ won’t eat. It’s being stubborn.” Serena groaned. “Then force it! When I’m home, it’s always leaning against my leg, wagging its tail. Why is it being so difficult with you? It’s a designer breed, Miles. Do not let it lose weight or I’ll have your head.” I went back in with a fresh plate. Sloane tried to swing at it again—for the sixth time. She was so weak she was trembling, her skin a sickly translucent grey. Something in me snapped. I grabbed her wrists, pinning them gently but firmly to the table. “If you don’t eat,” I growled, trying to sound like a hardened criminal, “I’ll make you regret it.” Sloane lifted her head. Even blind, her gaze was piercing. She let out a low, mocking laugh. “You think you can talk to me like that? Do you even know who I am?” I was exhausted and stressed. “I know you’re a ‘bad dog’ who needs to be punished.” She froze. I think no one had ever spoken to her with such raw, unpolished bluntness. In her shock, she actually let me guide a few spoonfuls of soup into her mouth. I watched her swallow, her throat moving elegantly. “You…” she whispered. “Just eat,” I said, my voice softening as I patted her back. “I’m not like the others. I’m one of the good guys, okay?” During the struggle, some soup had spilled onto her dark nightgown, clinging to her skin. I realized she was a mess. Sloane couldn’t see the state she was in. She looked lost, her dignity frayed. “You’re a mess,” I said. “Go clean up. I’ll be in the other room.” After “feeding the pet,” I went to the guest room to look over my onboarding materials for my new job. I was starting at a subsidiary of Whitaker Industries. I didn’t look too closely at the corporate hierarchy; I was just a mid-level analyst. I’d never see the top brass anyway. I called Serena to report. “The ‘dog’ threw a fit, but I got some food in her. She’s in the shower now.” Serena screamed through the phone. “Are you insane? It can’t bathe itself! It’s terrified of water! It’ll drown, you idiot! Go get it out of the tub!” I dropped the phone. The bathroom had been silent for too long. I sprinted in and slammed the door open. A shadow was slumped in the oversized marble tub, submerged under the water. “No, no, no!” I lunged forward, slipped on the wet tile, and went flying. I landed hard in the tub, water splashing everywhere, essentially sitting in her lap as I yanked her head above the surface. “Don’t you dare die on me! My career! My life! My sister!” Sloane gasped, coughing violently as she hit the air. Her lungs burned, her chest heaving against mine. Her eyes, clouded with steam and water, locked onto mine. I didn’t think about modesty. I just hauled her out, dripping and shivering. “It’s okay, it’s okay. From now on, we’re doing sponge baths. Or you stand up. No more tubs.” She was slick with soap and water. As I tried to get a grip on her to carry her to the bed, she shoved me away. Her face was flushed a deep, burning crimson. “Get out!” she rasped. “I’m fine!” “You almost drowned!” I shouted back, refusing to budge. We sat there in a stalemate on the bathroom floor until I let out a loud, wet sneeze. Sloane took a shaky breath, bracing herself against the wall as she felt her way out of the room, avoiding my limbs with practiced grace. She stood in the center of the bedroom, shivering, trying to find her composure. “I don’t know who sent you,” she said, her voice trembling with rage. “But leave. Now.” The cold air hit her, and she suddenly remembered she was wearing nothing but droplets of water. She froze. “…Can you see me?” I looked at her, my expression flat. “I’ve been an adult for a long time, Sloane. It’s nothing I haven’t seen before. Now, dry off. I’m staying right here to make sure you don’t collapse.” Her ankle monitor went into a frenzy. Anger. Shame. Humiliation. I played dumb. I watched her fumble for a towel and retreat under the covers. “I’m telling them to fire you,” she muttered. But I’d already hidden the landline. I’d cut the Wi-Fi. Serena was a sloppy kidnapper, I realized. She’d left her victim with too many ways to reach the outside world. I was just fixing her mistakes. Sloane, exhausted by the calories and the trauma, finally started to drift off. I sang her a lullaby—the one Serena told me the “puppy” liked for its insomnia. Sloane looked like she wanted to strangle me with her bare hands, but eventually, the darkness claimed her. Serena had mentioned the “dog” sometimes stopped breathing in its sleep. So, I dragged a chair to the corner of her room and watched her all night, only closing my eyes when her breathing was rhythmic and deep. The next morning, I pulled the curtains open, letting the Chicago sun hit her face. She looked beautiful and utterly miserable. “Good morning, sunshine,” I said. “Time for some Vitamin D.” Sloane stiffened, clutching the duvet to her chest. “You slept in here? All night? You’re a predator.” She reached for something heavy on the nightstand to throw at me, but I’d already padded all the sharp corners with foam and moved any potential weapons. I was protecting her. Her hand landed on a plush toy—a squeaky purple eggplant I’d bought at the store. She squeezed it. Her face went cold. “What is this?” “A toy,” I said encouragingly. “I thought you might be lonely. I’m here to give you the affection ‘they’ denied you.” She ripped the plushie’s head off. She stood up, storming toward the sound of my voice. “Get out of my house. Right. Now.” “It’s our house now,” I said with a sigh, patting her cheek. “We’re both stuck here. We’re both homeless in our own way.” My alarm went off. Time for work. I ducked under her arm and headed for the door. “I’ve set up a camera,” I lied (it was just a baby monitor). “Behave. If you make a mess, I’ll have to be firm when I get back.” The monitor on her ankle turned a violent, pulsing red. At work, I checked the monitor on my phone. I’d bought one of those cheap $10 robotic balls that rolls around the floor. Sloane was surprisingly well-behaved; she only punched her pillow a few times before sitting quietly on the edge of the bed. I rolled the robot up to her foot and bumped it. “Lunchtime. It’s in the microwave. Go heat it up.” “No.” “Do it, or I’ll make the robot play ‘Baby Shark’ on a loop.” She stood up, cursing under her breath, and felt her way to the kitchen. When she finished the first bite of the pasta I’d made, I triggered a pre-recorded sound of thunderous applause through the robot’s speakers. “You fed yourself! Good girl! Incredible!” Sloane’s voice was icy. “Shut. Up.” Later, she headed for the bathroom. Serena had warned me the “puppy” was still working on “potty training,” so I rolled the robot right to the door. “Aim true,” I chirped through the speakers. “If you miss, I’m making you scrub it tonight.” Sloane: “…” By the end of the second week, Sloane was looking healthy. The hollows of her cheeks had filled out. Her health index was climbing. Her emotional monitor was usually calm, except for the “red zones” when I supervised her hygiene. I bragged to Serena. “The ‘pet’ is doing great. She’s put on about ten pounds. She’s actually quite sweet when she isn’t trying to murder me.” “Ten pounds?!” Serena shrieked. “Miles, you’re turning my dog into a pig! If I come home to an obese animal, you’re dead! Put it on a diet. Now!” Fine. Body management it was. I went into the bedroom at 2:00 AM. Sloane was asleep. I gently slipped a silk sleep mask over her eyes—a “muzzle” of sorts, to keep her focused. She woke up, startled. “What is this?” “Owner’s orders,” I whispered. “We’re going for a walk.” “Who gave you that order?”
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