Your Friend, The Witch, called

Melvin swam up a sea of blackness towards his conscious self. The oily darkness peeled away as he reached the surface, his arms reaching for the light above him, but some of black clung to his brain like sludge and kept his thoughts slow and labored. Melvin tried to shake it off.

The first thing he recognized was the vibrating hum of a car engine rattling his teeth. His eyes fluttered open, and he saw that he was strapped into the passenger seat, the seat belt fastened across his chest and digging into the flesh at the bottom of his neck. His head felt heavy, and it took an effort to lift it and turn. He saw that Bridget was driving. Was he in her car? He struggled to remember how he had gotten there.

Bridget Briswell gripped the steering wheel with white knuckles, her eyes squinting to peer past the heavy rain pattering the windshield.

"What's going on?" Melvin murmured through thick lips.

"Your friend called me, the one you think's a witch, and she wanted... dammit!" Bridget swerved past a braking truck, the wheels of her car skidding across a patch of standing water and finding road. "She wanted me to take you to her. Said it was an emergency."

"I don't understand," Melvin said in a small voice, more to himself than Bridget. Bits of his last conversation with the witch settled in his mind: "What you need is some sustenance, and this is exactly what I can provide."

"Me neither," Bridget said, breaking his train of thought. She turned her head just enough to see Melvin out of the corner of her eye. "How're you feeling?"

"Much better," Melvin replied.

Then he promptly passed out, his forehead collapsing into the dashboard with a meaty thump.