The man named Joy also searched the streets. He drove slow in his black Suburban, eyes scanning left and right for any movement, any life, anything out of the ordinary. He kept his thoughts calm, and he drove with a patience. The night had been singularly unsuccessful thus far, but Joy held out hope that the widow and her companion would make a mistake. People always did.

Joy would hunt them. He would hunt as he’d hunted years ago, across the ocean, when rivals in the swamps of the Niger delta were stealing oil—his oil—from the pipelines, stealing food from his family’s table. Joy had been a good hunter then. He’d been patient and resourceful. He’d allowed the rival militiamen to wander so far into his traps, there was no possible escape but the slaughter. His family had eaten well. The oil had remained in his employer’s control.

This was not the Niger delta. The widow and her friend were not militiamen. But Joy would hunt them all the same, and he would slaughter them, too.

Something moved in the shadows ahead, at the fringe of the Suburban’s headlights. An animal, low to the ground and blacker than the night, trotting alongside the pavement in the same direction as Joy was driving. A dog, he saw, black with white markings. A leash but no owner to hold it. Possibly it was the widow’s dog. But where was the widow?

Joy slowed the Suburban as he gained ground on the dog. The dog continued on its way, oblivious to Joy’s Suburban or ignoring it. It moved with a purpose, trotting at a steady pace, nose to the ground and hackles slightly raised, as though it knew the night was hostile, but meant to reach its destination regardless.

The dog moved with such purpose that Joy couldn’t help but believe it really was the widow’s animal. Perhaps they’d been separated in the earlier confusion. The dog had been lost. The dog seemed to know where it was going, anyhow. Joy resolved to follow. If he was lucky, the dog would lead him to the widow.

The dog trotted onward. Joy idled behind. He searched the night for any sign of the widow, and he let the dog lead him where it would.

*  *  *

Is this a mistake?

Mason walked the empty streets, searching for the dog. Passed a church and a cemetery, a boatyard full up with decrepit, rotting hulks. Every block he walked had more shadows, more places for Lucy to hide. Mason figured the dog must be too scared to run, must have squirreled down a hole somewhere, must be all but invisible.

Come on, he thought, peering out into the dark. Come on, dog, show yourself. Come out of your hiding hole and let’s haul ass for Dixie.