Julia must have missed a step, because one moment she was climbing onto her bunk bed, and the next she was on the floor, quiet. Her phone lay next to her, her hands around her hand. Blood was oozing out from under her in a small pool, and it got on my night sandals and her phone and the foot of our stepladder and the side of my bag. It was almost midnight the day before finals, and I was studying with new glasses and could see perfectly for the first time in months. I didn't have to squint anymore but squinted out of habit anyway at the bunny clock on the wall. I must be getting to sleep but now this. I got up to save my sandals and bag, which were probably ruined, and started wiping the blood off with toilet paper.

When I finished, Julia was still in the middle of the room. I knew none of our other roommates would be back for another half hour from the library, so I went out to borrow the landlady's mop and some sanitizer. I knocked on her door and explained that there was an emergency and that there was blood everywhere and it was probably ruining her floor. For a moment she stood there with this horrid look in her eyes. I don't think she heard me ask for the mop because she grabbed her phone and ran out. After her, I can clearly see my trail of footsteps leading back into the room. I must have stepped on some blood earlier, and I am not looking forward to another hour of scrubbing my shoes.

When I get back to my room, the landlady is kneeling over Julia, peeling back her eyelids and calling her name. "I don't think she can hear you. She must have hit her head," I told the landlady, who was now placing two fingers expertly on the side of Julia's neck. "Don't worry," the landlady looked me in the eye across the room, her voice trembling a little, "I'm here now."

But then she bombarded me with really pointed questions, asking if I'd helped call 911, if I'd heard Julia say anything, how long since I'd been back to find her like this, and if I'd done any first aid and if I knew any. She even wanted to know if I'd told her friends or family, as if I knew them. I had to ask, "Why are you so upset about this? Julia did this herself."

She stopped dialing and looked back at me. And I looked at her, too. When 911 connected, I noticed that she'd used my pink washcloth to soak up some of the blood, and it was now red and disgusting.

You're delirious on fresh snow at 3 am in a quiet city because orange street lamps cook you like microwaves and you think about every ass-kissing you did to people but the dog is happy he's sampling sludge so you say no to his watery eyes and you lead him away from the intersection and cameras into shades of trees and around the corner came a fucking cop SUV with red and blue headlights and the dog senses something before he's yanked in the neck because you've taken off running

in the sludge and you're running with Crocs and slip and the dog's like fuck yeah we haven't run in months but you see cops pull up and stick a dog grasper on your perfectly calm dog and take it to the ground and you hear shouting for you to stop resisting and they get your phone number and ID and address and the last time you see your dog was it being dragged onto their car all because a dog-owner let his rottweiler bite a kid in the capital and "they" decided all big dogs are hazards even at 3 am in a snowed-in city with fucking nobody around.