“Please,” Kitty gasped. Tears blurred her vision. Not that it mattered; the light at the front of the warehouse barely reached around the sides. It was dark, which was what she wanted, of course—to not be seen—but it meant skating blind. She could just make out the tall chain-link fencing to her left and the warehouse wall to her right, and had to swerve to avoid obstacles as they materialized in the darkness.

The engines rumbled. They were still in the front lot, ripping through the high weeds. Kitty rolled in the opposite direction as fast as she could. She had no idea what was behind Jink’s Warehouse. More industrial wasteland, probably, but she might be able to scale the fence and find a place to hide, although what she really needed was a neighborhood—stores, people, police. If she could only—

Kitty didn’t see the barrel. It was painted black, splotched with rust. She hit it hard, and of course it was empty, so it chimed like a gong—first when she slammed into it, and again when it toppled and struck the ground. Kitty spilled off her board and rolled. No helmet. No elbow pads. No T-shirt. She scuffed skin from her arms and shoulders. Her head bounced off the pavement too hard.

“Oh . . . oh shit.” Kitty pushed herself to one knee, looking for her skateboard in the gloom. She heard its wheels spinning to her left and crawled in that direction, hoping the sound of the barrel hadn’t given her away. She swept her hands over weeds and trash, found her board, and got unsteadily to her feet. Blood trickled into her left eye. Kitty traced the laceration running along her hairline and onto her forehead. It was deep, would need stitches.

She had more immediate problems, though.

The light was sudden and stark, illuminating everything around her. Kitty staggered backward, looking through one eye and one splayed hand.

The Mustang rumbled at the top of the track, low to the ground and predatory. Its headlights pinned her like claws.

“No,” she wept.

Three throaty revs of the engine, as if in response: YES-YES-YES.

It came at her.

The rest of the world was stripped to its quantum, conceptual parts, and the only gristle was a choice: move or die.

In a blank zone, not aware she was moving, yet watching herself do so, Kitty turned, set her board rolling, and jumped onto it at a run. The narrow track was saturated with light now, and she veered around—or ollied over—the numerous obstructions. A sliver of awareness, of self, returned. She felt the breeze on her skin, the tears in her eyes. Her heartbeat filled her body—a loud, fearful rhythm.

The Mustang didn’t avoid the obstructions. It went through or over them. It struck the same barrel that Kitty had and sent it flying forward, tumbling end over end ahead of her.