Little Ash is just one town over. On the other side of Grainger Hill. Atlanta’s been through there—not much to look at. Not even a town, really, so much as a couple farms and hills, Amish and Mennonites here and there. “Uncle’s farm,” she says. “Wonder if that’s the Farm. One Tressa was talking about.”

“Could be,” Shane says. “That where the dogfights are?”

“Maybe. I dunno.”

“Then we need to figure out where the Farm is.”

“Shit,” Atlanta says. “If that’s where they hold the fights, we won’t have access. It’s not like a town softball game or something.”

Shane shrugs. “Why not ask your friend Guy?”

“Why? ’Cause he’s Mexican?”

“No,” Shane says with a scowl. “Because he’s into some . . .” For this, Shane lowers his voice, talks out of the side of his mouth. “Shady. Business.” Dang, just because she told him one time that she bought some prescription drugs from Guy, he thinks the guy is like fucking Scarface or something. Still. Maybe it’s not a bad idea to ask. Guy did say something about dogfights way back when, so maybe he knows something.

“I’ll ask. I need to see him anyway.” Get some money up front from Jenny, get a hookup. She’s about to tell them they need to settle up when someone else comes into the greasy spoon.

A cop.

The cop.

Orly’s buddy from the gun club.

Not a big man, Unibrow. But he carries with him a sizable darkness. He’s in uniform. Catches sight of Atlanta and the others sitting there, and his thin lips turn to a small smile. His single dark brow twists like a snake trying to find a comfortable way to lie, and he starts walking over.

Atlanta’s blood and bowels go to ice water. The sugar tang in her mouth suddenly tastes bitter.

Shane sees him, too. He stares down at his coffee.

Steven doesn’t get it. He mostly just looks up, confused.

“Everybody good here?” the cop asks.

Nobody answers. Steven finally says, “Yup.” Nervous because it’s a cop, maybe, but otherwise oblivious.

Atlanta stands. Moves fast.

She takes her iced-tea glass and smashes it over the cop’s head. Sweet tea goes everywhere. The cop cries out. Jagged glass rends forehead flesh—blood and ice hit the cracked linoleum of the greasy spoon and—

The little minimovie inside her head stops playing, and the cop nods as he remains standing there, the iced-tea glass still sweating in front of her. The cop smiles again, watching her the way a black cat watches a spring robin at a bird feeder. “Hope so,” he says, then heads to the counter.

Shane lets out a breath.

Atlanta can’t take it. She has to get up and leave. Tosses her last dollar on the table and bolts.