Dazed, opening her eyes, she feels her world tilting, unbalanced. Her leg aches. Reaching toward her ankle, she pulls back the torn denim. Her flesh is purple and red with bloody indentations from the snapping teeth.

The dog growls and barks, pawing and digging at the ground below the fence. Anne brandishes her middle finger at the dog. Fuck you! And thinks about the gun in her backpack. The hurt in her ankle where the bastard had clamped down on her. She stares at its smoky coat, black ticking and matching ears pointing up like spearheads. It is some kind of crazed cattle mutt, growling and whining, pawing at the dirt.

Kneeling down to unzip her pack, reaching in to feel the cold heft of the pistol, she pulls it out and points it at the dog’s head, but she doesn’t have the mettle to shoot the damn thing.

Inside the barn, old straw is spread everywhere. She tosses her pack down, sits on an old thin mattress. A few red and blue milk crates serve as chairs. Walls are covered in graffiti. Anarchy symbols. Black Flag. Slayer. Slipknot. Pot leaves. Clown heads. Penises. Boobs. She and other kids from school have been hanging here since she could remember. A hiding spot from their parents when shit went south. When one needed to drop out. Disappear. De-load.

Everything started to hit her. The adrenaline is beginning to slow, to dump. Fogging her mind. She mashes her eyes shut. Images of her brother lying on the kitchen floor. Blood ponding like spilled paint. Her mother cursing her, throwing that bottle at her. Packing up. Running away. Getting chased. Her leg starts to stiffen with hurt. A panic surges within her. She wants to scream.

Taking a deep breath, counting to ten, knowing Trot will be here soon, she exhales. They will talk it out, make their plan. Taking another breath, she wants to be anywhere that isn’t Johnson City, Tennessee. But more than anything, she hopes Mitch is still breathing. She exhales again.

HUNTER

HUNTER

He had lost his purpose. Deep down, he knew that it was why he exploded on his boss. Rescuing Ruby had been the right thing to do, returning his sense of morality. He had gone overseas with the army, not so much to fight a war as to help people. Then he’d come home and eventually started working for Ox. Drudging day after day in that shop to meet deadlines. Rebuilding bikes. The job no longer mattered. The nine-to-five had become a grind, lost its flavor. Not that he had ever acquired a taste for it. There was nothing to gain in doing the bidding of others on his own time.