Ignoring her, I squeeze the man’s upper arm. It’s the perfect mixture of fat and muscle. I squeeze it, and lean in close. My heart rate is through the roof. I can hardly breathe.

Are you kidding me? Thistle says. You don’t know who he is, where he came from, how he died or who might be looking for him. Plus, you got another body on the way. You don’t need this.

She’s right. But she’s too late to stop me. It was too late the moment I saw the body.

Just one bite, I tell myself, and rip a chunk out of his arm with my teeth.

He screams.

I rear back, but it’s not him. Something else has screeched—maybe that owl from before.

A flashlight flits between the trees in the distance.

Holy shit. I duck down, gore dribbling from my mouth. I’m not alone in this forest. Someone is here, probably tracking the dead man. Maybe the driver of the car he escaped from. Or a cop, doing search and rescue. Either way, the person with the flashlight will be armed, unlike me. Boots trample the undergrowth, closer every second.

I could run back to my car. But when the tracker finds the body, he or she will notice the fresh bite, clearly made by human teeth. The tracker will start looking for me. If they are with the police, they’ll call in reinforcements. The forest will be surrounded, the highway blocked off. The cops will stop me, see the blood on my face, and it’s over.

So I can’t let the tracker find the body.

I heave the dead man over my shoulder. He weighs maybe a hundred and sixty pounds. Less than me, but still it’s hard to walk with him on my back. My feet sink deeper into the undergrowth with every step. Leaves crunch, branches rattle. Hopefully the tracker won’t hear me over his own footsteps.

Soon I’ve reached the edge of the forest. I look around. No sign of any cars on the road other than mine. I hustle out of the forest and run over to my Toyota. My fingers are shaking as I open the trunk, leaving blood on the handle.

Headlights in the distance. Engine noise. If that’s anyone other than Francis, I’m in trouble.

There’s a thirty-gallon plastic tub in the trunk. I dump the dead man in and slam the lid. I keep my face turned away from the car as it passes.

The car slows down, but doesn’t stop. I’m not sure how much the driver would have seen. Even less sure how likely they are to report anything they did see.