“It’s a Morton building. It’s like a type of farm building.”

“No, I mean, that’s where they Vick the—”

Just then, a gun goes off inside the building. Bang.

“The dogs,” Maisey finishes, wincing. “I hate that part.”

“Vicking a dog.”

Maisey nods. “You know. Killin’ it? Like the, uhh, football player.”

Killing it. Atlanta has to get out of here before she finds a way to set fire to the whole place.

But she has something to do first.

She says, “Maisey, you know a Bird or a Bodie?”

“Haycocks. I know those two. Couple-a dopes. They’re over at the barn.”

“The barn.”

“That’s where they keep the dogs before the fight.”

Her hand dips into her pocket. Feels the baton there again—a small source of comfort, that baton, like a match flame on a cold day. But it’s better than nothing.

She doesn’t know what she’s going to do. She has no plan. But her anger doesn’t need a plan—and it probably wouldn’t care if it had one.

She leaves Maisey in the dust and heads toward the barn, a massive peaked building with windows like eyes and a big broad door like a hungry sideways mouth. Barn’s got a fresh coat of paint that marks it with the color of a slaughterhouse floor, but Atlanta tries not to think about it that way.

Inside, the floor is hay-strewn. Big spears of sunlight beam in through windows and skylights, motes of swirling dust and pollen suspended there. She’s surprised at how calm it is, given the dozen or so dogs stuck in wire cages—cages that are piled one on top of the other. Whatever fighting instinct these dogs have is neatly contained, bottled up and somehow saved for the fights. What she sees are mostly pit bulls of various sizes and colors—black and brindle and fawn, big and small. At the far corner is a boxer, gooey drool hanging from its flappy jowls.

Handlers mill about, some of them tending to their dogs, others talking. Still others stare each other down from across the barn. It’s quiet, yes; but behind the apparent serenity lurks a thread pulled taut.

Atlanta wants to kill all these people.

Not just hurt. But kill. She tells herself that’s just the anger talking. That she doesn’t really want to kill anybody. Kids say that all the time, right? I’ll kill you if you touch my beer! I’m going to kill her for stealing my man. Teacher gave me a bad grade, and now I want to kill her ass. They don’t mean it, right?

But she really, honestly wants to kill someone.

It’s not the first time she’s felt that way, and that’s worrying her most of all.