The forest is a blotchy mess. She sees someone in the woods watching. It’s Chris. He waves at her—a chipper five-finger waggle, as if to say, Toodle-oo.

More animal noises. Bird again? No, the raccoon. Bodie has the animal—the collar’s off, the chain against the ground. He sticks the knife in its neck and throws it into the woods where Atlanta sees the brown shape run about ten feet and then drop. It’s just a lump, but she sees its haunches twitching. Hears it whimpering.

Then: Fingers around her neck. The jingle of a collar. The rattle of a chain.

They’re hooking me up to the pole.

I’m the coon.

I’m the bait.

She finds the slack in her mental rope and pulls it tight—she’s able to get her hand up and swat at Bodie and Tressa, but it’s a dumb, numb paw, and the fingers still don’t work. Tressa slaps her once, twice, a third time. It doesn’t sting, but it rocks her head back against the metal pole and that hurts, and she thinks the pain is good because it means maybe, just maybe, the tranq is starting to leave her system.

“Get her hands,” Bodie says. Tressa moves behind her, winds another chain around her hands. The metal is cold, and Atlanta tries to pull away, but her body still isn’t listening.

Bodie gets between her legs. Eyes glide over her. That mean smile. A grim chuckle. He lets his hand fall to her thigh, and it feels like a heavy weight and like it’s not there at all, and inside she’s a barn full of horses catching on fire, but outside she can’t do much more than shift her weight and moan against her teeth.

Tressa punches him. “Hey.”

“Whatever,” he says. His hand leaves Atlanta’s thigh.

There, in the woods, Atlanta sees a shape in the trees. A shadow hanging. A body. She sees Chris’s face—purple-bruised, tongue thrust out from between dead lips. He winks.

Then—a white blur, a snowy shape, a hot humid blast. Bodie brings the big white dog over to her, shoves its face into hers. He tells the dog: “Maybe you just need better bait. Since this bitch lost us our last bait dog, seems like she wants to volunteer. Ain’t that right?”

The dog sniffs her. Stares. Lip curls up showing one pink canine fang. Fanged, she thinks, fang stuck in skin, and she envisions that happening to her.

This massive beast is gonna tear her apart.

Omar and Orion all over again, except she can’t run, can’t move her hands, can’t protect her face. Dog’s got a set of jaws that could peel back a crumpled car roof. And he’s staring at her like she’s a plate of steak left on the patio.