Miriam can barely parse what's happening. The blurred motion. The splashes of red. Louis's ghost next to her, whistling that faux-innocent, "I knew all along" whistle.

Do something, her brain yells.

Her body lies frozen. Like it's disconnected, gone off-line.

The saw grinds – now against bone. Ashley's eyelids flutter.

Good, part of her thinks. Fuck him. This is all his fault. (This is all your fault, another voice reminds her, a voice that sounds suspiciously like Louis's.) But she knows when Hairless is done with Ashley, it's on to her. What parts of her will he cut off? What parts is she willing to forsake? The hot tears burn streaks down her cheeks, and her mind lights up.

Do something.

Do something!

She does something.

She props her chin on the seat in front of her, uses it to get leverage. Bound feet under her, she pushes up, shoulders herself over into the same seat as Hairless and Ashley. She almost slips off the bloody leather but manages to get her back against the seat, her legs up.

Hairless regards her with nothing but idle curiosity.

"A survivor," he says. "I like that."

She aims her bound feet toward his head. But precise control isn't on the cards when her body's been relegated to the movements of a fat grub or clumsy inchworm.

She kicks Hairless in the chest.

The blade slips from his hand, but not before making one last dig. Ashley's foot swings by a strip of skin and ankle hair that looks like a stretched Band-Aid.

Miriam kicks again, both feet into Hairless's sunken chest.

The door behind them opens. Maybe Ashley opened it on purpose or by accident. Maybe it was never closed properly. Miriam doesn't know and doesn't care.

What she knows is that Ashley tumbles out of the car. His body is a shuddering shape, a shadow, and then it's out the door and gone. The space where he was is now nothing but passing pine trees, dark needles against a steel sky.

Hairless, looking more than a little bemused, leans back, holding onto the oh-shit handle above his head with his bony, almost feminine fingers.

In his other hand, he holds Ashley's severed foot.

He regards it the way a teacher might regard an apple from a student.

Miriam knows she only has seconds to act.

She tries to push back with her legs. If she can get to the opposite door, if she can press her back up against it, her bound hands can grab the handle, pop it open, and she can escape. But the blood – there's too much of it. It's slick. It's like trying to run in a nightmare: feet jogging through wet cement. Grunting, she pushes back again and again, flexing her legs, hoping her feet will offer her some purchase…

It works. Her back hits the Escalade door. Her fingers work like blind worms, feeling for the door handle.

"No," Hairless says, as if by saying it, he commands reality.