Riverdale sat under a ceiling of heavy, charcoal clouds that refused to rain. The gloom pressed down on the town, choking out the morning sun and turning the streets into a washed-out gray.

  David Sanchez stood in the bathroom, staring down at the toilet. It looked ridiculous. The lid wasn't just up; it was missing entirely. His Uncle James had somehow managed to snap the plastic hinges off last week, a feat of clumsy strength that David still couldn't wrap his head around.

  Outside, the town groaned awake. Riverdale was trying desperately to become a city, and it was loud about it. The dull hum of the neighborhood was being eaten alive by the grinding gears of construction trucks and the riptide noise of traffic on the new highway. The mayor had promised motels, vibrancy, and a booming economy. All David got was a headache.

  He flushed the toilet and reached up, scratching his short black hair aggressively, trying to wake up." God, I’m tired."

  He leaned over the sink, resting his weight on his palms. In the mirror, his reflection looked wrecked. His blue eyes were rimmed with red, standing out sharply against the deep, permanent tan he’d picked up living in this oven of a town. It was Saturday, one of only two days he had off from the grind, and even though he’d overslept, he felt like he hadn't slept at all.

  He reached for the cold water tap and twisted it.

  He expected the rush of water. Instead, the pipe let out a dry, hollow hiss. Then silence.

  David froze, his hand still on the metal handle. "You have got to be kidding me."

  Frustration, hot and prickly, bubbled up in his chest. He turned the tap back and forth. Nothing. He spun around, lifted the heavy ceramic lid off the toilet tank, and peered inside. The mechanism sat in the bottom, bone dry. It wasn't refilling.

  He clenched his jaw, squeezing his eyes shut to block out the sight of the rusty inner workings of the toilet. He took a long breath through his nose, exhaling slowly.

  This wasn't a plumbing error. This was James.

  His uncle forgot everything. He forgot groceries. He forgot to clean the dishes. But he never forgot the way to the casino or the track. The water bill money was probably sitting in a dealer’s tray right now, while David stood here with unwashed hands in a dry house.

  *Does he even have the money to pay for it?* David thought, the question bitter in his mind.

  He leaned in closer to the mirror, inspecting the damage. The skin at the corners of his eyes was the darkest part of his face, a deep, permanent pigment that never faded. It was the mark of Heartz, that baking hot country town where he’d grown up, where the sun was more of a physical weight than a light source.

  It made him stand out in Riverdale. Here, people burned or they paled, but they didn't look like him. It was just another thing that built a wall between him and the locals.

  But his uncle...

  James had the family complexion, sure, but lately... he was changing. He was glowing. Literally. David had actually checked the bathroom cabinet last week, hunting for self-tanner or bronzer, but he’d found nothing but cheap shaving cream. When he’d asked about it, James had just smirked, looking smug and orange.

  "No product, kid. I just know how to take care of myself."

  David rolled his eyes at the memory.* Yeah. Taking care of himself while the water gets shut off.*

  He smacked his lips; his mouth tasted fuzzy and sour. Morning breath. Without running water, he couldn't brush his teeth, but he wasn't helpless. He had backup jugs of water stashed in the storage room specifically for this scenario. He’d learned a long time ago that relying on James was a trap.

  He needed to get the keys to the storage room, and he needed to wake his uncle up.

  David stepped out of the bathroom and down the short hallway.

  The living room was dim, the curtains drawn tight against the morning. The only light came from the television, which was playing a rerun of a football game on mute.

  You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.

  James was there, slumped on the sagging beige couch. He hadn't moved since last night. He was still wearing yesterday’s clothes, his head lolled back against the cushion, mouth slightly open. He must have passed out watching the game he’d inevitably bet the rent money on.

  "James," David said, his voice flat. "Wake up. The water's off."

  James let out a snore that sounded less like sleep and more like an engine stalling, a heavy, wet rattle that vibrated in his chest. It was a groan disguised as a breath.

  David rolled his eyes. "Come on," he muttered.

  He reached out and slapped the sole of his uncle’s foot. "Wake up."

  James woke with a sharp, strangulated gasp. His limbs jerked, and gravity took over. He slid off the sagging cushions and hit the floor with a heavy thud, face planting into the carpet.

  "Geez," David said, shaking his head. "Just how much did you drink last night?"

  James didn't answer. He curled inward, grabbing the center of his stomach and wincing as he forced himself to roll onto his back. He looked like a beetle stuck on its shell.

  David stood over him, unimpressed. "Look, what I wanted to tell you, before you passed out, was that the water is off. Again. Someone forgot to pay for it."

  "David..." James wheezed, his voice tight. "Help..."

  David sighed and folded his arms across his chest. "What? You want me to help you get up? Get up on your own."

  James groaned, his knees pulling up to his chest.

  "I’m not doing this today," David said. He pulled his phone out of his pocket and tapped the screen. "It’s 10:47 AM, James. You’re already late for work. If you even still have a job."

  James blindly extended a hand, fingers trembling in the air. "I’m serious, kid. I think... something’s wrong."

  The tone of his voice stopped David cold. It wasn't the usual slur of a hangover. It was small. Scared.

  David looked down, really looked, and his eyes widened.

  Underneath the deep, permanent tan, James had gone the color of old parchment. He looked waxy, the sweat on his forehead cold and greasy. Even for a man who was a lazy slob, a man who had spent his life dodging responsibility, this didn't look like a performance.

  James grimaced, his teeth clenched in genuine agony.

  "Oh shit," David whispered.

  The annoyance evaporated. David dropped to his knees, ignoring the dust on the carpet, and grabbed his uncle’s outstretched hand. It felt cold.

  "What is it?" David asked, his voice spiking with sudden panic. "What’s going on? What’s wrong?"

  "My chest..." James gasped, his fingers clawing at his own shirt. "It hurts."

  "What?" David stammered, his heart hammering against his ribs. "What can I do? Do I call an ambulance?"

  James didn't answer immediately. His body seized, his back arching off the floor as a fresh wave of agony hit him. It looked like something inside him had physically cracked.

  "No," James groaned, his eyes squeezing shut. "It’s too late."

  "It is not too late!"

  David tried to pull his hand away to reach for his pocket, but James’s grip was iron. He yanked David closer, pulling him off balance.

  "Call them," James hissed, eyes flying open, wild and yellow. "But wait. The drugs. You have to hide the drugs first. Under the sink."

  "I am not doing that right now! I’ll hide them after!"

  David tried to stand up, desperate to get to his phone, but he was stuck. He was crouched low, and his skinny jeans were unforgiving. The denim bit into his hips and thighs, so tight that he couldn't slide his hand into his pocket. He dug his fingers at the seam, frantic, but between the crouching position and his uncle’s deadweight grip on his other arm, it felt impossible.

  James pulled him down again. "David, listen to me. I know I haven't been a good uncle. But I tried."

  David stopped fighting the pocket for a split second, his mind reeling. You tried? The thought was bitter, instantaneous.* You call this trying?*

  But James cut through the thought. "Tell Jonathan... tell him I love him, alright? tell him I never wanted it to be this way."

  "What are you saying?" David’s voice cracked. "Don't say things like that. You’re just... you’re probably just having a cramp."

  "Stomach cramps," David insisted, though he didn't believe it. "It's just cramps."

  James coughed, a wet, rattling sound. "Before I go... you need to know. The wardrobe. The one I told you never to open."

  "James, stop talking."

  "I’ve been stashing cash in there," James wheezed, his voice fading. "There’s a key inside... for the..."

  "Come on," David hissed through his teeth.

  He dug his fingers into the pocket, fighting the denim. *Stupid James,* he thought furiously. *This is your fault.*

  James had bought him these clothes. He’d only bought David three pairs of pants in total, and he never got the size right. They were always a size too small, cutting off his circulation. Even in a crisis, James’s incompetence was ruining everything.

  Finally, with a grunt of effort, David yanked the phone free.

  "I’m calling an ambulance, so don't talk," David said.

  He looked at the screen and his mouth fell open.

  The glass was shattered. A spiderweb of cracks obliterated the display.

  "What the fuck?"

  David stared at it. It must have cracked from the pressure in his pocket when he crouched down. He knew it was a piece of junk, a cheap, fragile model everyone had warned him not to buy, but he hadn't cared. He cared now.

  He tapped the screen frantically. The backlight was on, but the touch sensors were dead. It wouldn't swipe.

  "Come on!" David shouted at the device.

  "David," James wheezed, his voice bubbling. "The wardrobe..."

  "Stop talking! Where is your phone?" David scanned the floor, panic rising.

  "Don't be surprised... of what you find in there," James choked out, ignoring the question. "I just... missed your aunt. Alright?"

  David recoiled. "What? No. If it's like that, I am not touching that thing. You can open it yourself."

  James gripped David’s wrist, pulling him down. "The key... It’s for the basement."

  David’s eyebrows shot up. "What? We have a basement?"

  "Whatever you do," James gasped, his eyes drifting out of focus. "Just make sure that the..."

  David stood up abruptly, ripping his hand away from his uncle’s grip with all his strength. He couldn't listen to this nonsense; he needed a working phone.

  "Where is it?" David yelled, spinning around, scanning the messy room for James's cell. "Where is your phone?"

  "David," James whispered, his voice barely a breath. "The..."

  David scanned the room, panic tightening his chest. His eyes landed on the TV stand.

  There. Buried inside the small plastic flower pot, hidden amongst the dusty fake leaves, was the corner of a black rectangle.

  He lunged for it, snatching it out of the foliage. Why the hell would he put it there? David thought. Who hides a phone in a fake plant?

  He didn't waste time looking for an answer. He woke the screen, it worked and his thumb hammered 911. He pressed the green call button.

  "James, I’ve got it, I’m calling..."

  He turned back to the floor and he froze.

  The phone slipped from his fingers, tumbling through the air until it hit the hardwood floor with a loud plastic clatter.

  James wasn't moving.

  His chest had stopped hitching. There was no wheezing, no rattling groan. He was just lying there, sprawled on the carpet. His eyes were wide open, staring fixedly at the ceiling, glassy and yellow.

  He had stopped breathing.