Another message popped onto my phone. This one said, “There’s a snack for you in there, too.”

I let my eyes trail down to the remaining shelves. On the very bottom, there was a bowl covered with tin foil. I crouched and peeled the covering back, revealing thin strips of meat.

It looked like shredded chicken. Or turkey. Some kind of flesh.

Wait. Wasn’t that her second question? Something like, “Would you rather eat the dead flesh of your mother or your father?”

I remembered joking about how, if I was desperate enough to become a cannibal, I might as well eat my dad, because he had more fat on him. Would fill up my stomach. She laughed at that.

And I bet she was laughing now, watching me admire her handiwork. I wondered how long it took her to set up all her props. She was pretty talented. She should really work at a haunted house. Get paid for all that work.

I checked Snapchat again to tell her that she got me. That she was sooo funny. Hah-hah. But this time, her name had a purple square next to it instead of blue. Not a message, then. A video.

I clicked on it, making sure my sound was on. And I heard whimpering. A weak cry muffled by duct tape. It was coming from my mother.

She was wriggling on the floor, tied by the wrists and ankles. She was almost nose to nose with my father, sprawled on the ground next to her, with a bullet through his head. With a missing hand.

Fuck no…

My parents hated horror movies. Barely watched television in general. And I had never mentioned Amy to them, not once. There was no way they’d agree to pull a prank like this.

It had to be real. But it couldn’t be real.

I sprung up, snatched the severed hand (nearly dropping it when the coldness hit my skin), and tugged on the ring until it came loose. The right inscription was inside. Eternally yours ’88.

It was actually my father’s ring, then. This was actually happening.

Another message: “It’s okay. You don’t have to devour the whole bowl. You can ease into the game. Just a few forkfuls will do.”

And another: “In case you didn’t put two and two together, I’ll kill your mother if you don’t play along.”

I don’t remember taking any time to think through my options, to figure out if I could sneak out of the room before Amy pulled the trigger again. All I remember is sitting on the floor, bowl in my lap, scooping up meat with my fingers. Stuffing it into my mouth and swallowing after two or three chews. Coughing when clumps caught in my throat.

But I didn’t let my mind latch onto the present or look too closely at what I was being forced to eat. I just ate. And thought.

What was the next question? What the hell was it? I hated Snapchat. Hated that I couldn’t look back at our conversation to check, because our words got deleted right after they were sent.

I’d eaten a third of the… meat… when the next message came through. It said, “There’s a glass of water in the bottom drawer of the refrigerator. Drink it and take the pill next to it.”

I didn’t remember anything about drugs in our would-you-rather game. Who knew what it would do? I thought about sticking it to the side of my mouth, only pretending to swallow. But if it killed me, maybe she’d let my mother go. Maybe our game would be done early.

Or maybe it was a painkiller, something to calm me down. Wishful thinking, but I needed to latch onto any hope I could find.

So I played along. I swallowed it.