Why? I ask. "Choose," she repeats. I look over my shoulder, but no one is there. I turn back to the baskets. "What will I do with them?" "Choose!" she yells. When she screams at me, my fear disappears and stubbornness replaces it. I scowl and cross my arms. "Have it your way," she says. The baskets disappear. I hear a door squeak and turn to see who it is. I see not a "who" but a "what": A dog with a pointed nose stands a few yards away from me. It crouches low and creeps toward me, its lips peeling back from its white teeth. A growl gurgles from deep in its throat, and I see why the cheese would have come in handy. Or the knife. But it's too late now. I think about running, but the dog will be faster than me, I can't wrestle it to the ground. My head pounds. I have to make a decision. If I can jump over one of the tables and use it as a shield-no, I am too short to jump over the tables, and not strong enough to tip one over. The dog snarls, and can almost feel the sound vibrating in my skull. My biology textbook said that dogs can smell fear because of a chemical secreted by human glands in a state of duress, the same chemical a dog's prey secretes. Smelling fear leads them to attack. The dog inches toward me, its nails scraping the floor. I can't run. I can't fight. Instead I breathe in the smell of the dog's foul breath and try not to think about what it just ate. There are no whites in its eyes, just a black gleam.