A voice answers: Maybe he’s here for you.

Gotta get out of here.

Now.

But she doesn’t know where to go. Danger in each direction. She feels caught, like she’s still collared to that pole. The dog nuzzles her wrist, and she almost thinks to swat the animal away, but she’s too afraid to touch him. Then a voice reaches her ears, and that voice is like a song sung by all the angels in one big chorus:

“Atlanta?” Guy asks.

He’s shoving a baggie—now half-empty of its pharmaceutical booty—into a back pocket. “Hey, what’s up with the dog—”

But she doesn’t have time. “We gotta go,” she hisses.

“Aw shit, you’re bleeding. What did you do?”

“I’m fine. Talk later.”

She starts dragging him toward the parking lot. He protests—“I’ve only sold half of what’s here”—but she shushes him and gestures toward the cop.

“That’s a cop,” she says, quiet as she can manage over the whoops and boos of the crowd.

“What? You kidding me?” He suddenly gets it. “Gotta go, yo.”

“This way,” she says, taking the long route through the parking lot, ducking behind as many cars as she can. Gravel crunches under feet.

As they duck behind a powder-blue Chevy pickup, Guy says, “That dog’s following us.”

“I know, shut up.”

“Where’d he come from?”

“I said shut up, dang.”

Ahead sits the boxy Scion.

And Shane’s not in it.

Atlanta stands, slaps her hands against the back window, and peers in, thinking that maybe he’s lying down or hiding in the backseat somewhere like a scared mouse. But he’s nowhere to be found.

“Bitch!” comes a voice across the parking lot.

Tressa Kucharski. Bodie next to her, his forearm dripping. The two of them start winding their way through the lot. Atlanta looks the other way and, sure enough, there’s John Elvis Baumgartner, squinting in her direction, the flat of his hand forming a visor to block out the sun.

“Let’s go!” Guy barks, skidding around the front of the car while hitting the keychain button to unlock the doors.

Atlanta yells, “We can’t leave without Shane!”

“Maybe you can’t,” he says, then hops in the car.

Now John Elvis is really leaning in. “Hey!” he yells, like he’s still not sure it’s her. Of course, he’s dumber than a stack of firewood. But the cop sees her.

He stares right at her, eyes like two cigarettes, burning holes in her.

From the other direction, Tressa and Bodie are hurrying around cars—fifty yards and closing.

Tressa raises the pistol again.

Where the hell is Shane? Atlanta calls out: “Shane! Shaaaaane!”