Sandra dropped to her knees, dug her fingers into the dirt, and, breaking a nail in the process, pried up one of the stones. She got a firm hold on it, stood, and headed straight for the Arrival containing Lisa Carver’s body.

She marched around to the other side of the car and, holding the stone with both hands, smashed the glass. The window exploded into tiny, granular shards. Sandra reached through the broken window for the bloody purse tucked under Lisa Carver’s body.

The car made a sound. A whirring sound. A startup sound.

Sandra grabbed for a short length of visible purse strap. She had hold of it, but it was slick with blood and she lost her grip. Sandra grabbed a second time and yanked it out of the car, worried that it was about to drive off.

Sandra opened the purse and started tossing things out—a lipstick, tissues, a tiny plastic bottle of nasal decongestant—until she found what she was looking for.

A cell phone.

“Yes!” Sandra said.

But her elation was short-lived. When she hit the home button a digital keypad appeared. The phone needed a passcode. Or, possibly, a fingerprint.

Sandra looked back into the car. Lisa Carver’s outstretched, bloodied right hand was on the seat just inside the broken window, a few granules of glass stuck on it.

Most people, Sandra reasoned, used their thumbprint to start up their phones. One of the items Sandra had dumped from the purse was a small packet of moistened wipes. She snatched it off the ground, opened it, and pulled out three towelettes.

“Jesus, I can’t believe this,” she whispered to herself, leaning back into the car and lifting up the dead woman’s hand and using the wipes to get the blood off her thumb. “Please don’t be left-handed.”

A voice spoke to her from the dash.

“You broke my window.”

Sandra, confident the thumb was now mostly clear of blood, held it carefully with one hand while holding Lisa Carver’s phone in the other.

“Why did you break my window?”

The phone failed to become active. Sandra took another look at the thumb and saw a few more flecks of blood. She used another wipe to do a more thorough job.

“How else was I going to get inside?” Sandra replied, focusing on her task, mindful that the car knew she was here. That it might start moving at any second, with her feet on the ground, and the upper body leaning into the vehicle.

Not a good position to be in.

“Why did you want to get inside?” the car asked.

“I needed this woman’s phone, and now I need her thumbprint to get into it.”