The cop. The dark little man with the furrowed black brow. Again in his civvies: red polo, jeans. She doesn’t see a gun, but she figures he has one on him somewhere. Ankle, maybe.

“Mr. Petry,” Skank says with some measure of respect, then steps back.

Petry. That’s his name. Officer Petry.

He sniffs, looks Atlanta over. “You.”

“Me,” she says. Then spits a little blood into the grass.

“You don’t know when to leave well enough alone.”

“What can I say? I like to pick scabs.”

He nods. “Which means you like to bleed.”

She shrugs.

He says to Skank, “Panzer’s going to fight soon. Karl and Hiram are heading there now. You go over. I’ll handle this problem.”

“I want in on this,” Skank says. “You can’t take this from me.”

They start arguing, but Atlanta’s head reels. Panzer. Jew-Biter.

Whitey. That means her dog will fight. Wayman will want that fight whether she’s there or not. Won’t he? Whitey isn’t ready. Isn’t trained for this.

Gotta get up, gotta move, gotta do something.

“. . . can just shoot her in the woods, nobody would know . . .”

“. . . don’t need you for this, Melanie . . .”

“. . . they’ll think I’m just shooting a dog . . .”

Melanie gesticulates with the pistol. Petry tries to calm her.

Atlanta reels. Her face pounds. Her nose bleeds.

There.

That’s it.

What she learned back in the hospital? Back at Emerald Lakes? Where they locked her up, tried to make her not crazy? Blood is power, just not in the way Skank thinks it is.

They took her weapon and gave her a weapon.

She holds her face to her hand. Bleeds into her mouth. Tastes the greasy, salty red. Over her tongue. Under. Holds it there. Then she stands up.

Skank sees, says, “Oh, hell no, bitch, sit your ass down—” And comes at her with the pistol.

Atlanta spits a mouthful of blood into Skank’s face. Into the eyes. Into the mouth. It’s enough.

I’m not gonna be surprised by you again.

Oh, yes, you are.

Skank staggers, wiping at her face, shrieking like she just caught AIDS—and it’s all Atlanta needs. She grabs the hand with the gun and twists the wrist and—

She has the Luger. She hits Skank across the nose with it and the psycho goes down, rolling around on her side, moaning and sobbing and clawing at her face.

Petry is already dropping to one knee and ripping the Velcro flap off his ankle holster—but before he can grab the stubby revolver tucked there, Atlanta has the gun leveled at his head.

“Don’t,” she says, voice shaking, but her hand steady.

“You don’t want to do this.”

“I am doing this. Take the gun out. Throw it into the woods.”

He stares with dark, pinprick eyes, like holes cut in a blanket. “I’m not going to do that.”