This is it. Beginning of the end, she thinks. This is where she finds out if they’re going to let her back in or just shoot her at the gate and steal the dog. As she gets closer, Winky sits forward in his chair and eventually stands, radioing in with the walkie-talkie.

He grins. Tips his hat. “Morning, Miss Burns.”

“Hey.”

His right hand hangs at his thigh, occasionally drifts toward his ass—she figures he’s got that pistol tucked in the back of his jeans.

“You want to go in?” he asks, teasing her.

“I do.” Whitey senses it. Steps forward. Head low. A low grumble coming from his throat.

“That dog better not come at me.”

“Then you better not come at me.”

“I’ll shoot him.”

“And I suspect that Ellis will shoot you as a reward.”

He smiles. Nervous-like. Offers an awkward laugh: “Heh heh heh.” Then says, “Lemme just get that gate for you, if you’ll hold one second.”

Winky backs toward it. He lets Atlanta and the dog pass. Whitey growls at him the whole way.

She feels like she might throw up again, but whether from the hangover or the nerves, she’s not sure.

As she walks up to the Farm, a massive shape crosses the parking lot to meet her halfway. If he were a little higher in the sky, the Mountain Man would block out the sun and cast darkness all across the earth.

Through his tangled beard she can make out a big, yellow-toothed grin.

“Atlanta Burns, as I live and breathe.”

“Mr. Wayman.”

He puts out a hand. She remembers watching this video with Shane about a big-ass spider: a Guatemalan bird-eating tarantula. His hairy knuckles and knobby fingers make her think of that spider. They shake hands, and she’s afraid he’ll rip her arm out of the socket. But while his hand is rough with calluses, the grip itself is soft. The shake, gentle.

“There’s my prize,” he says, the mountain shrinking and stooping to Whitey. He holds out the back of his hand. Whitey sniffs it. Doesn’t growl, but hesitates. “He’s suspicious. That’s good. How’d training go?”

“Just fine,” she lies. Only things she’s trained this dog to do are chase houseflies and catch Doritos in his mouth.

“Walk with me,” Wayman says.

She nods. Reticent as she follows along.

Ahead and to the right, the crowd has gathered. They’re milling about—the fights haven’t started yet. The crowd’s shuffling feet kick up puffs of dust as the onlookers murmur and whoop and posture.

Wayman heads off toward the barn. Thankfully not the Morton building. Atlanta wants to see that building burn to the ground with all the human monsters in it. Contain yourself, she thinks, trying to swallow her angry heart in a tide of . . . well, if not compassion, then patience.