She pukes again on the way. Guy yells at her not to get any on the car, and so she hangs out the open window—a window that no longer exists thanks to Winky with his John Deere hat and pistol—and somehow manages to miss the side of the banged-up Scion.

For a few minutes, she feels better again. Barfing is funny that way, she thinks. You never want to do it, and you try so hard not to, doing whatever you can to keep it from happening, all the while feeling like a stack of dishes ready to topple. But then you do it, and it’s horrible for those thirty seconds, but afterward you feel cleaned out, freshened up, like all you need to conquer the day is a splash of water and a capful of mouthwash.

Whitey sits in the back, panting. After she hauls her head back inside, he licks her ear. She reaches back with a clumsy hand and scratches behind his ear.

“You’ve really taken to that dog,” Guy says.

“He saved my life. Or something close to it. I figure I owe him some ear-scratchin’ now and again.”

“It’s more than that. You two are bonded.”

“He’s all right and I’m all right and we’re even more all right together. But he’s just a dog.”

“You say that, but you don’t act like that.”

She just shrugs.

“You sure about today?” he asks.

“I’m good,” she says. “My guts no longer feel home to a pissed-off family of raccoons.”

“That’s not what I mean.”

“I know. I’ll be fine. The plan is about as easy and as dumb as they come.”

“You’ll be in there alone. No gun. Nobody with you.”

Again she scratches Whitey. “I got him.”

Guy drops her off at the base of the driveway like she asks. Atlanta doesn’t need him getting any more wrapped up in this than he already is, way they wrecked his trailer and his car—oh, and his face. She hoofs it with Whitey in tow.

The day, like all the days lately, is hot and dry, and it isn’t long before she starts to feel like a piece of meat left too long on the grill. The trees and the grass all feel a little less green, like the sun has decided to stop feeding the plants and start feeding from them instead. It’s doing the same to her—sapping her strength, robbing her of her confidence and stripping her bare like pulling all the insulation off a wire. Fear sparks hot and electric.

The hangover isn’t helping, either. Her whole body pulses.

Sick, slick, sweaty, and weak. Say that a hundred times fast.

Her boots crunch on gravel. Not far off she sees the fence and the gate.

Sure enough, Winky stands there, his green and yellow John Deere hat easy to spot.