It’s smack-dab in the middle of everything, and that’s where all the people are. The pit looks to be plywood walls affixed to metal stakes forming a big dug-out octagon, dozens of people standing at the perimeter and watching whatever’s going on inside, and another dozen more milling about like ants that wandered from the colony.

Guy parks the Scion at the edge of the lot. Atlanta stays, draws a deep breath. The encounter with the man in the John Deere hat has left her shaken—like someone stuck an ice pick through the links of her imaginary armor and got her right in the lungs. She pulls it together. Another breath. Another. Toughen up, you dumb girl.

“Stay in the car,” she says to Shane.

“But—”

But nothing. She’s already out and closing the door behind her. Her bag remains in the seat where she left it, but she takes the collapsible baton and tucks it into one of her oversized pockets.

The sun is bright. Hot. The day is starting to cook the earth, dry it, and split it like chapped lips. Guy stands in front of her and pops on a pair of Wayfarer sunglasses. “You good?”

“I’m good.”

“You got a plan?”

“Nope.” And with that, she starts walking. Heading right for the big stage, the main event, the really big show. That’s what they call it, Guy said. Those in the know don’t call it the “fight” or “fights.” It’s the Show. Capital S.

Stones crunch under her boots. Guillermo walks next to her, hands tucked into pockets, trying to look tough, or like he just doesn’t care, or maybe those are the same thing for him.

The crowd, like the assemblage of cars in the lot, is a wild mix. And fairly segregated. A cluster of black dudes on this side—some of them looking like gangbangers, a couple others hanging out in uniforms that suggest they work up at the local rendering plant. Hispanics on the other side, and some of them look like bangers, too. A few look like maybe they just came from a kitchen somewhere, with dirty aprons still on. The whites ring the other side, and they’re a mix all their own—a clot of hillbillies, a handful of sweaty suit-clad business types, and then on the other side, the fucking skinheads. Some of them are punky: tatted, Mohawked, wild-eyed. Others are clean, conservative, real Hitler Youth types.

Not many women, that’s for sure. Those that are here appear to be pros. Short skirts, too-tight jeans, lipstick so red they look like vampires fresh from a feeding.