She thinks, He’s coming for me, now, and any second he’ll bite into the heel of her foot, and when she goes down it’ll be face-first. The dog will rip her to ribbons.

Atlanta stops, wheels on the dog. Better to face the hellhound than give the beast her back.

But when she pivots, the dog skids to a stop. And sits down.

Panting. He even gives his head a little dip—to say what, she doesn’t know.

It’s surreal. He’s got a head like a cement block, and his jaw is stained pink and red. Teeth, too. But he looks docile as a sleepy lamb.

“Go away,” she mumbles, mush-mouthed, lips barely able to form those words.

The dog continues sitting.

“Stop following me.”

Pant, pant, pant, pant.

“Seriously, quit it.”

The beast licks his lips. Blinks. Then burps a little.

“Whatever,” she says, exasperated. No time for this. She still feels groggy, like her parts are disconnected from the whole. But her job here is done. Revenge has been achieved. Bodie’s hand looked like a grenade went off in the palm. That’s good enough for her.

She turns again and runs. Time to find Guy and get the hell out of here.

Into the crowd. Another fight must be on—everybody is fixated once more on the ring, and she hears snarls and whimpers from within the octagon. She searches the throng, body by body, face by face, looking for Guy but not seeing him. Someone bumps into her leg—

And it’s not a someone but a something. The dog. The white hellhound with the cement block for a head. The dog looks up at her. The face of innocence, except for that bloody muzzle. She doesn’t even bother saying anything; he’ll figure out sooner or later that she doesn’t want him around.

Movement from over by the barn: Bodie—his face twisted by pain, his hand under the crook of his opposing arm. Next to him, Tressa, the tranquilizer pistol in her hand. Both of their eyes searching the crowd.

Shit! Where’s Guy?

She moves away from the barn, around the far side of the ring, the dog still plodding after her—his snow-white coat sure to give her up. “Shoo,” she says. “Shoo.”

Everything feels like a nightmare. She’s still moving slow from the drugs. Can’t find Guy. Her enemies are here and looking for her. Pursued—dogged, literally dogged—by a red-mouthed hell-creature.

It’s then the nightmare really opens its mouth and shows its teeth.

Ahead, toward the parking lot, she sees John Elvis Baumgartner talking to somebody.

It’s the cop. It’s the goddamn dark-eyed, unibrowed cop. Plainclothes, no uniform. He’s easy to spot—he’s like a crow on a power line, a shark’s shadow under the sea’s skin, a melanoma right there on the back of your hand.

Why is he here?