“Oh, Finney.” The man’s voice is full of sympathy, but the mask grins and grins. When he tugs at Finn’s hair he jerks back, and the heels of his sneakers knock against the hard edge of the mattress.

“What do you want?”

He can see he’s been crying, or he knows — he knows about the phone. The way he looks at Finney makes his face grow hot.

There’s something happening there on the top of Finney’s head and it hurts like a bruise. The sweat adhering to his scalp has begun to itch — now the roots of his hair are prickling, and the curls are matted at the back of his head where the bare mattress has been pressing; the concrete is cold and yet he’s sweating.

“Look at that. Just like a little kitty cat.”

He touches something — something that shouldn’t be there; Finney feels it. He’s feeling out a shape. Finney feels the pad of the Grabber’s thumb press into the soft pocket of a cat’s ear.

“Stop! Just stop it!” Finney exclaims, feeling his voice crack, and the crazy thing is that he does — he lets him go, like he’s embarrassed.

The shock of it runs through him like cold water. Finney knows what this means better than most. Dad got his when mom died. People in town know what that means. It means you hit the bottom. Maybe the other boys got theirs too. Maybe they didn’t have the time. Finn puts up his hands to cover them and feels the fur there, thin and soft.

It didn’t hurt. That’s the worst part, having the new ears touched touched feels good. Finney never knew that.

Through the eyeholes of the mask, the Grabber’s eyes look confused, sort of stupid. He’s leaning down really close, with his fingers still stiffly extended. “Don’t you want to see them?”

Finney stammers. “No.”

“I bet you want to see them. There’s a mirror upstairs.” His voice goes rough and mocking now, like a cartoon devil. “I didn’t think that happened to little boys.”

Like he’s just going to ask if he’ll let him see it? He wants him to try it so badly, just so he can beat him up and do whatever else he does to naughty boys.

“No, thank you.” Finn swallows tightly; his throat feels thick and sticky. He could break one of the soda bottles and cut him with the glass, maybe. He could break the fucking bottle over the Grabber’s shitty head. He’s been down here long enough that he’s starting to think like Gwenny. Maybe somewhere she’s thinking about him.

The Grabber steps back from him, holding up his hands like: it’s fine, no problem, no harm no foul. No touching. The same hands, the same ring on his finger, but it isn’t a wedding ring — what man wears a ring for no reason? All these details seem important, or maybe they mean nothing at all. He’s wearing different clothes now, brown corduroy pants and a yellow knit shirt with a collar. Maybe that means something. Maybe he’s going someplace.

The Grabber’s voice is back to normal, like a teacher’s. “You must be so sad. I bet you wish you were back home. It won’t be long now, I really mean it. I just have to take care of some things.”

Sometimes he talks like he’s going to let him go, and then he doesn’t. He doesn’t want to let him go. He wants him to play the game.

So this is rock bottom, the worst it’s ever been. It can still get worse.