Atlanta ducks behind a blue mailbox and crouches there, darting a hand into her messenger bag.

It’s impossible to tell make or model, but the coming vehicle is a white pickup pitted with rust and dented everywhere, giving it the texture of crinkled aluminum foil. The truck screeches to a halt in front of the beagle house, and the beagle goes from just barking to doing this . . . other thing. Something between howling and wailing, some mad banshee yowl that’s probably meant to indicate alarm but sounds more like the dog fell in a well and can’t get out.

Someone hops out of the back of the truck, runs toward the dog with a bag.

Atlanta feels the hoofbeat of horses in her heart—her skin prickles and everything seems suddenly hyperreal. Everything gone clear, clean, cold.

This is it.

She pulls the baton from her bag and bolts across the street, ducking low as she darts in front of the headlights, her long shadow stretched and bloated on the street for a hair’s breadth of a moment.

Voices. Someone from inside the truck whoops. Male voice. “Get that dog, you fat clown!”

Another voice. Also from inside the truck: “Who the frick is that?”

Someone yells: “Hey! Hey!”

Atlanta ignores them. Chooses instead to focus on the dognapper.

The broad-shouldered trespasser ahead of her on the lawn is already doing a dance with the dog, coming at the animal with the sack—a feed sack by the looks of it—held out like a weapon, swooping low and trying to bag the beagle to no avail. The killer has on a black face mask, black shirt, black jeans, black boots, and, in contrast, a pair of yellow latex gloves. The kind you’d use to wash dishes.

The attacker goes for the dog again.

Atlanta bolts across the lawn, careful not to slip on the dewy grass. With a flick of her wrist and a button press, the telescoping baton snaps from its mooring, extends from eight inches to two feet. Last time she tangoed with the Skinny Bitch Nazi, the psycho came at her with a baton. So Atlanta bought her own. Ballistic nylon sheath, whatever that means. German steel. Fifteen bucks on eBay.

From the truck: “Watch out! Frickin’ watch out!”

But Atlanta’s target is focused on the dog.

Atlanta whips the baton against the stranger’s back, right between the shoulder blades.

The kidnapper goes down, howling along with the dog. But something doesn’t sound right.

The beagle, finally wising up and realizing that shit is going pear-shaped, takes off in the other direction toward the house. Behind Atlanta, tires squeal, peeling out as the truck belches a dragon’s breath of exhaust, then barrels forward with a growl and grumble—and then it’s all taillights and plumes of gray.

“Stealing dogs, huh?” Atlanta asks, and whips the attacker in the side again.