Miriam's head pounds.

Tree branch. Bad dreams. A shitty combination.

The gash across her forehead pulses, but the cut on her cheek where the pistol bit her isn't taking the competition sitting down; it nibbles, like a hungry worm, with her face the apple.

Plus, her butt-bone still throbs.

And worst of all, she doesn't have any cigarettes. They were in her bag. A bag that is now God Knows Where. Probably in the hands of that horrible bulldog of a woman.

Sighing, she thunks her head against the door behind her.

She doesn't intend for it to be a knock, but that's how it happens. She hears shuffling inside. Louis opens the door, obviously surprised to find a battered girl sitting outside his motor lodge bungalow just past the ass-crack of dawn.

"Morning," she croaks. Even speaking a single word makes her body hurt.

"Oh my god," he says. She can see it on his face: a very real look of pain, pain possibly worse than what she's experiencing. His large hands reach behind her, and he helps her stand with a gentle lift. Her legs wobble, and for a second she's not sure if she's going to make it – but she fights back dizziness and takes a deep breath.

"Sorry. I would've brought donuts."

"What happened?"

She seriously considers telling him the truth. Something inside her wants to spray out of her like popping a raw, red zit. Festering pus. Pbbtt. Miriam wants to tell Louis everything: all about her strange ability, how she got it, how she saw him die a death that was coming way too soon, how Ashley isn't her brother, how they almost got killed over a metal suitcase filled to the brim with baggies of crystal meth, every last horrible nugget of truth.

But she doesn't.

She convinces herself that it would only hurt him. It'd be selfish. He doesn't deserve that laid across his shoulders (doesn't deserve to be crucified for your sins), and it's not like he'd believe her anyway. She's lied so much already.

"The boyfriend." Keep on lying. You go, girl. "He found me. I didn't think he would, but he's a talented asshole. He found out where I was staying and…"

She demos her blood-encrusted face like Vanna White showing a prize.

"Ta-da."

Louis's jaw sets. It's like a bear trap clanging closed.

"That sonofabitch.".

"It's all right. I gave worse than he gave me. I stabbed her – sorry, him, my brain maybe got rocked around a bit – I stabbed him in the leg with a butterfly knife."

This actually seems to satisfy him, and she loves him for that.

"Well. He deserved it. What about your brother?"

Miriam waves it off. "Worthless shit. Sided with the boyfriend. Done with both."

"Good for you. You need to come on in here so I can get you cleaned up."

"I know. Faded black eye. Bloody head. Cut cheek. America's Next Top Model, right?"

The faucet runs. Louis has the washcloth wet with tepid water, and he runs it over her forehead. She's amazed at how gentle he is. He's huge. Those hands could crush her skull like it was a beefsteak tomato, and yet his touch is soft and slow – almost intricate, like a painter's. Like this is somehow art to him.