All three of them.

Biggs’s hand hits the path and lands on its back, like a dead crab. I crash down next to it and grab it, hoping they didn’t see. I stuff it into the pouch at the front of my hoodie and try to stand.

One of the drunkards kicks me in the chest, and I roll back, tucking my head just in time to avoid cracking it on the path.

‘See what he’s got,’ the other drunk says. He sounds sober now. I can’t believe I fell for the act.

The Adderall-looking guy—I wonder why he didn’t pretend to be drunk like the others—pins me down with one hand while he searches me with the other. His forearm is like a steel bar across my chest. My arms are trapped. He’s done this before.

But this time he gets a surprise.

His hand comes out of my pocket holding Biggs’s fingers. For a second the guy doesn’t know what he’s looking at. Then he says, ‘Oh, holy fuck!’ and flings it aside.

The pressure on my chest loosens just enough.

I rear up and bite his cheek.

He screams then, turns his face away. But I don’t release my grip, so the movement tears a strip of flesh from his face.

He punches me, a desperate but surprisingly well-aimed blow to my left eye. I flop back down, my head full of stars and my mouth full of blood. The meat is so fresh and tender. I need more.

I sit up. The rest of my meal is running away, screaming. So are his two friends.

I’m about to give chase when a light turns on in one of the buildings behind the fence. Someone is here, and awake. As I watch, another window goes bright.

Panic suppresses the hunger. I look around frantically for Biggs’s hand. Those guys saw my face. Soon I’ll be wanted for assault. If I leave the hand here, that assault could be connected to Biggs’s murder.

But the weeds on either side of the path are lush. I don’t know where the guy threw the hand, and I don’t have time to comb through the grass.

‘Hello?’ a voice calls.

I break into a sprint, in the opposite direction from the three would-be muggers. For the second time in two days, I find myself wiping gore off my chin with my sleeve as I hurry through a public place, hoping to get to my car before anyone spots me.

I’m losing it. One day I’ll make a mistake that gets me killed.

What scares me isn’t the idea that I just made that mistake. It’s the idea that I did it yesterday, or a month ago. Maybe I’ve been doomed for years and I just don’t know it yet.