The front door closes with a thud, and I know I don’t have much time. I race to the window at the far right end, by the patch of empty driveway where guests are meant to park. I spit on my finger, blood and slobber and slime, and then I jump, tracing the letter H in the glass with my spit. It’s faint and it’s a Hail Mary pass, but if Chet hits it with his headlights, he might actually spot it. I lick my finger again and keep going.

My writing is sloppy and my lungs and legs burning with effort, and I’m nowhere near finished by the time a car door slams. An H and E but only part of an L, a slimy but partial mirror image of my call for help. I press my palms to the door and pray Chet sees. Look up look up look up.

Chet’s motor revs as he swings the car around, a four-point turn that flashes his headlights on the windows, shafts of light glowing against the glass. One window lights up, then the other, the letters pink and slimy and plain as day. I hold my breath. Come on, Chet. All you have to do is see.

Chet guns the gas, and the headlights flit away. The garage goes dark. Chet winds the Jeep back down the drive. I collapse to the floor, the tears coming hot and heavy. Chet’s gone. He didn’t see.

The door opens, silhouetting Micah in white light from the kitchen. He gathers his equipment from the floor and motions for me to follow. “Come on. Let’s go.”

“Where are we going?”

He looks down at the tank in his hand, the mask dangling from a finger. “Please don’t make this any harder than it needs to be.”

My wits and adrenaline, that’s all I’ve got left—that and a box cutter. I feel its sharp edges pressing into my waistline as I haul myself off the floor.

I drag my feet as much as I can on the hill, buying myself some time until we make it to the dock, though I can’t imagine what for. Micah is only a pace or two behind, too close to make a run for it, and I’d never make it very far, not with a gun pointed at my shoulder blades. The rain has mostly stopped, an intermittent patter interspersed with thunder rumbling in the distance, but the lawn is slippery and I’m still barefoot. I move in slow motion, feeling the outline of the box cutter against my skin. Sometime between moving from the garage and the back door, I’ve managed to slide it into my sleeve, but I’ll be dead before I can whip it out. I brought a knife to a gunfight, and a cheap-ass one at that. My only hope here is a miracle.

Or Jax.