I take a long puff from my inhaler before weaving my keys through my knuckles. I’ve always been small, so my dad made me take self-defense lessons in middle school. I was good, but any idiot can follow directions in a simulated fight. If my attacker doesn’t start with a right hook, I’m not sure what to do next. I’ve never had to test my ability to improvise. I clutch the strap of my bag with my left hand. If someone charges me, I have at least two swings—my bag and my makeshift weapon.

My nerves buzz with adrenaline. I lean against the iron railing separating the pier from Lake Michigan and glance over my shoulder at the water below. The drop has to be thirty feet, at least. Water slams against the pier. Every time a new wave crashes, a foamy white spray bursts up the side.

An erratic chanting reverberates through the Swarm. I turn, expecting to see a deranged mosh pit full of breakout fights and people pummeling each other. But instead my eyes fix on a girl with choppy jet-black hair standing in the crowd, clutching the bag slung across her body. The tense inward curve of her shoulders throws me. She isn’t chanting or cheering like the others. She looks nervous, pained. Agitated.

I fumble for my cell and click one last shot. She stands out, but no one else seems to notice her. I scan the group for anyone like her only to find the boy hiding beneath the navy hood. His colorless eyes lock in on mine.

I press my back into the railing as if it will somehow hide me.

His glare is deliberate. He dips his chin and walks toward me. His cold gaze doesn’t break. He weaves his way through the crowd like he has all the time in the world. Without warning, he picks up speed and runs.

My knees seize. I drop my phone and scrabble for my keys, preparing my two hits. But the boy closes the space between us so fast, I don’t have time to plan.

Something flashes to my left.

I spin just in time to see another guy lunging at me.

Before I have time to brace myself, the boy in the hood knocks my would-be attacker away with little effort. I’m his for the kill. I swing my bag at his head. He blocks it. I throw my punch, but he grabs my arm and my waist in one fluid motion. His arm is thick, his grip solid. I think of an anaconda squeezing the life out of its prey.