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Silas says go into that store and ask for a hotdog. When they tell you they don’t have hotdogs, stomp your foot really hard and scream like you did in the hotel this morning.” “What the—” He crosses his arms over his chest. “Silas says.” Why the hell am I even doing this? I give Silas the dirtiest look I can and stomp off in the direction of the store he pointed me to. It’s an insurance agency. I swing open the door and three grouchy-looking adults raise their heads to see who has walked in. One of them even has the audacity to scrunch up their nose at me, like I don’t already know I’m dripping water everywhere. “I’d like a hotdog with everything,” I say. I’m met with blank stares. “Are you drunk?” the receptionist asks me. “Do you need help? What’s your name?” I stomp my foot and let out a bloodcurdling scream, at which all three of them drop whatever they’re holding and look at each other. I take their moment of surprise to run out. Silas is waiting for me outside the door. He’s laughing so hard; he’s bent over at the waist. I punch him on the arm and then we both run for the Rover.
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