Antonia’s at the table in her cabin, trying to read by the glow of the neon arrow. It’s more effort than it’s worth, and she’s too tense to concentrate anyway, keeps looking out the window to where Elijah’s hiding, keeps jumping at noises that make her think someone’s creeping up on them.

She hopes to hell this thing gets resolved tonight. She hates these ratty shacks and Bull and the idea that Bob and Real Deal’s thirst for revenge has put her and Elijah in danger. On top of that, twinges of bloodlust are rippling through her like someone’s strumming her veins and arteries. She’s still a couple weeks out from having to feed, but the stress of the past few days has screwed up her clock. She checks the magazine of her pistol for the tenth time and gives the book another chance, hoping the story will take hold.

Elijah, standing guard, knows everything she’s feeling. He heard it in her voice this evening and saw it in the set of her jaw. Nothing he can say will calm her, though, and he doesn’t want her calm anyway. He wants her on edge, he wants her ready to fight. He looks toward the cabins. The only movement is at Bull’s place. Bob’s out front. Bull hands him a plate of food. The two men talk quietly.

Elijah turns back to the road. From where he’s hidden he can see all the way up and down the strip of asphalt to where it disappears in both directions. Across the road buzzing power lines are strung between steel towers. These, too, extend as far as he can see. He aims the shotgun as if preparing to fire. “Boom,” he whispers. He lowers the gun and brings it up again.

“Boom.”

Because Antonia made them turn off their noisy swamp coolers, Real Deal’s cabin is sweltering even with all the windows open. There’s a .22 cartridge on the table. He flicks it to set it spinning, but the sound is too loud in the enforced silence. He feels he’s close to snapping, and God help the world if he does, now that Yuma’s not here to rein him in.

Bob finishes his grub and walks out to the lookout post. “Private Pyle reporting for duty,” he says to Elijah.

“Come back in twenty minutes,” Elijah says.

“Go on. Throw Antonia a bone. Seems like she needs it.”

Elijah hands Bob the shotgun and goes back to his cabin. Bob settles into the chair. Not five minutes later headlights rise like twin moons in the west. Bob sinks to one knee. As the vehicle draws near, he lifts the shotgun, ready to send a load of buckshot through the windshield. An old pickup—Ford, with an over-the-cab camper—drives past and off into the night. Bob sits again. These false alarms are gonna kill him.