“What the hell is the matter with you? Don’t you understand?”

My face flushed hot in reflection of his sudden anger.

“A boy’s throat was ripped out by wild dogs last night while we were inside dancing and having a good time. I spent all day with his girlfriend, who was wearing a diamond ring that his mother found in his dresser. He was going to give it to her for Christmas. It’s December eighteenth today. I say that’s a fine Christmas for a lot of people. And you’re sitting here telling me that probably because Julie got a little pushy with him out in the vacant lot, when he saw the monster he said, ‘Here, doggy, doggy’?” He pounded the steering wheel, the aura of his grief smelling sour. “You’re a pretty unfeeling person, Angelina. I thought I had you pegged, but now I don’t know.”

“I’m not unfeeling, Boyd, I’m just detached. I’m trying to find a perspective here. I’m sure there’s a larger picture, if only we’ll . . .”

“No. I’ve found my reason. We’ve got a hunting party set to go at midnight tonight. We’re going to track that thing down and blow it to bits.”

It was my turn to recoil in horror. Boyd grinned at me when he said that, grinned without mirth, grinned with the bloodthirsty grimace of a death’s head. Of course. He was a hunter. A hunter.

And so was I.

I opened the door and jumped to the sidewalk, to the harsh brightness of the used-­car lot. The theater marquee spilled light over the opposite side of the street, and a line was beginning to form at the door.

Boyd jumped out and ran around the truck to me, but I turned from him and walked away.

He hunted for pleasure, for sport, for recreation. He found beautiful wild animals and killed them. I hunted for pain. I found the confused, the hurting, the oppressed, and I loved them into death, into peace, into calm, into eternity. And I was hated and he commended.

“Angelina.” I heard his heavy steps behind me, and one big hand caught at the shoulder of my jacket. He spun me around. “Angelina?” The brown spot over his iris looked at me and I saw it as a bull’s-­eye. “Please. I’ll drive you home.” I shook his hand off and began walking again. “Please. It’s dangerous!” I con­tinued to walk, trying to stomp a little bit, make my steps a little louder on the concrete, wishing I was larger and heavier and not so laughably petite.

I pushed my hands into my jacket pockets, steel­ing myself for a long, cold walk home. It would be good for me. The early night air chilled me into shivers. I felt vibrant and alive.