on TV. Most people think that folks with OCD are crazy. But we’re not—and it ain’t funny. I hate being like this. Hate the fucking looks people give me.”
“So your OCD has to do with doors?” Angie asked.
Marcel nodded. “Yeah, something like that. Doors and appliances, mostly. I need to make sure the doors are locked and everything is turned off. That’s what I was doing when . . . well, when everything went to shit. I was sitting in my car, double-checking the headlights and stuff. The more stressed I am, the worse it is, and right now, I’m pretty fucking stressed. I’m scared and worried about my family and I’m sick of sitting in here freezing my ass off. But at the same time, I know it’s suicide to go back out there. So, my OCD kicked in and I was making sure the straps around the doors are secure. We know they are. Your knots will probably hold. But I’ve got to make sure anyway. I can’t help it. And it ain’t just doors, either. I have to count things—how many potato chips I eat out of the bag, how many steps I take, how many times the phone rings. And I can’t stand odd numbers. Like, if I’m reading a book, I can’t stop on an odd numbered page. If I walk somewhere, I have to end on an even numbered step. When I’m channel surfing, I skip past the odd-numbered channels. If I go out to eat and the check comes and it’s an odd number, I’ve got to tip enough to make it even.”
They stared at him, not speaking.
Marcel shrugged. “I guess you probably think I’m crazy.”
“I don’t,” Jack said. “Shit, man—we’ve all got our problems, you know? I’m on Prozac. People make fun of that, too.”
Marcel grinned. “Prozac? So am I. It’s the only thing that works for me. I tried Paxil, Luvox, Xanax, and Zoloft, but all they did was make me comatose. So now I’m on Prozac. It works better.”
“Not to be rude,” Angie said, “but if you’re checking the door even though you know it’s secured, then are you sure the medicine is working? Maybe you need a different dosage.”
“Yeah. Believe me, I’m sure it’s working. Like I said, my symptoms get worse when I’m stressed. So pardon me if I seem a little freaked out right now.”
Outside the door, somebody screamed—a long, unwavering howl that seemed to rise in pitch and intensity. Then it stopped.
“Fuck,” Jack whispered. “That sounded like some kind of animal. Are you guys sure it was other people that did these things?”
“You didn’t see them.” Angie burst into tears. “I’m not surprised they sound like animals.”
She lowered her head and sobbed. Her shoulders shook, but she made no sound.
“Hey.” Marcel reached out a tentative hand and squeezed her shoulder. “If you’re worried you offended me with that medicine remark, don’t be.”
“No,” she sobbed. “It’s not that. I’m just scared. And depressed. Story of my life. I’ve got chronic depression. You guys aren’t the only two people on Prozac. That’s what I was here for, too.”
Marcel nodded. “Me, too. I ran out of meds yesterday, in fact. Haven’t taken any since yesterday morning. Come to think of it, that might be why my OCD symptoms are a little worse today. I was on my way in here to pick up my prescription.”
Angie wiped her eyes on her sleeve.
“That’s kind of weird,” Marcel continued. “Right? That all three of us would be taking Prozac?”
“Not really,” Jack said. “There are lots of people on Prozac these days, dude. The doctors prescribe it like candy.”
“Yeah, but to have three people out of four on it? That just seems odd to me.”
“Four,” Sammi mumbled.
“What’s that?”
“Four people on Prozac. I take it, too.”
“You’re depressed?” Jack asked.
Sammi shook her head.
Marcel let go of Angie’s shoulder. “OCD?”
“No.” Sammi sighed, pausing before she spoke again. “Bulimia.”
“I knew it,” Jack said, then stopped, realizing he’d blurted it out. His