"Rest assured. I'll stay out of your way until the day I die, just to keep your reputations clean."
I spun to leave, just as the upstairs neighbor squeezed past me in the narrow hallway, wrestling a massive dog on a leash.
"Filthy beast! Keep it away from me!" Mom shrieked, recoiling like the animal was radioactive. "Do you know how much bacteria those things carry?"
Her high-pitched scream set the dog off. It snarled, snapped its leash taut, and lunged straight at me.
"Watch out!"
Too late. I stumbled backward, lost my footing on the slick concrete, and tumbled down the stairs. I hit the landing hard. Teeth sank into my calf—white-hot, searing.
My heart slammed against my ribs, skipping beats in a terrifying, erratic rhythm. The hallway lights blurred into gray as oxygen failed to reach my brain.
Not now. Please, not now.
My trembling fingers clawed into my bag for the pill bottle. I popped the cap and dry-swallowed, choking it down.
Mom snatched the bottle, reading the label with widening eyes. "Are you insane? This garbage? Do you have any idea what it does to your liver?"