Faith stood with arms crossed and looked at the door. This was what came of hanging in rural America: reduced to going to the library on Saturday afternoon for something to do. She shook her head and pushed through the door. She found herself looking down a long central aisle, with a children's area to her right (at least the knee-high tables made it look like a children's area) and a young adult section to her left. The bulk of the books were to the left of the central aisle; the area to the right was a white wall, probably offices and storage that were reached through the doors behind the desk, which was at about her two o'clock.
"Oh, well, look who's here." Faith's head whipped toward the voice, fists balling up by reflex; she relaxed when she realized the speaker was Ethel, the thick woman from the diner, who was apparently the librarian. She wore a pink cardigan today, over a gray dress. "It's nice to see you. How can I help you?"
The Slayer shrugged. "I'm just looking for something to do."
"Oh." Ethel nodded, then pointed toward one of the shelves near the front of the room. "Well, we have a selection of movies you could check out."
"I don't have a VCR," Faith said. "Or a TV." A thought occurred to her. "I don't have a library card, either."
"Piffle." Ethel waved a dismissive hand. "I'll put anything on Ben's card. He certainly has one." She thought for a minute. "So, the movies are out of the question. What do you like to read?"
Faith's face looked like someone had offered her liver and onions. "I don't."
"Oh. Well, that is a puzzler." Ethel tapped her lips with an index finger. "What sort of movies do you like? Horror's pretty popular with young people."
"Nah, I'm not into that." The Slayer did not bother to explain why horror was not her preferred genre. "But I do like action, you know, fights and good guys beating the sh- crap out of bad guys."
"Hmm. Let me see." Ethel levered up out of her chair. She walked like a woman whose feet hurt just a little bit as she went back into the shelves. She returned in a few minutes with a book in hand. "We got this in the middle of last year. Several of the men who like adventure stories swear by this writer. Take a look."
Faith made a 'whatever' face, flipped the book open, and scanned the first paragraph:
"Nathan Rubin died because he got brave. Not the sustained kind of thing that wins you a medal in a war, but the split-second kind of blurting outrage that gets you killed on the street."
"Huh." She went on, and before she knew it was on the third page. She looked up at Ethel, who was back behind the desk. "You said you could put this on Ben's library card?"
"I certainly can."
Faith hefted the book and looked at it, an expression of almost-wonder on her face. "I'll take it."
Ethel held out a substantial hand. "Let me stamp it."
Three hours later, Faith realized that she was stiff and hungry. She had gone back to the apartment, curled up in the armchair, and proceeded to rip through a third of the book. It was a revelation. If someone had put a book like this in her hands in middle school instead of that mopey bullshit they had peddled, she might have looked at reading differently. Yeah, yeah, The Giver was supposed to be the shit, but Faith couldn't believe that people in the Community couldn't see it was a scam from the jump: anyplace that perfect was, by definition, a lie. She did have to admit that, after being chosen as the Slayer, she could kinda understand the 'Seeing Beyond' stuff a little better, but still…
Compared to this, though? This writer knew what was what, and, damn, could he pull you ahead. Still, as the Slayer got up and stretched, she realized that her stomach was threatening to crawl out through her throat. She glanced out the window; the highway below the window was in shade, but the sun was still visible above the buildings across the way. She twisted at the waist, then grabbed her hoodie and hit the door.
She passed the library, which closed early on Saturdays. At the end of the block, facing each other across the highway, stood the grocery store and the convenience store. Faith eyeballed both establishments. The grocery store wasn't very big, but it was an old building, all brick, shingled roof, probably been in that spot for a few generations. The convenience store was a local concern, not a 7-Eleven or AmPm, just a metal building with a tin roof and ornamental brick halfway up the front wall and two gas pumps anchored in the asphalt drive.
Faith looked at the grocery store, then across the highway to the convenience store. The grocery store would probably be a little cheaper, have some healthier options, but the convenience store would probably have those big hot dogs on the roller under a heat lamp. What self-respecting Boston girl could resist that? The dark Slayer jammed her hands into the pockets of her hoodie and jogged across the street. An old, sun-faded Kia Sephia was parked around the side of the building. Faith hopped up the single step that separated the driveway from the sidewalk and pushed the door. An electric chime ding-dinged as it opened. She paused and scanned the store. It was as generic a set-up as possible: two interior aisles, two along the walls, cases of no-name beer stacked at the head of the aisles for easy access, cold case against the back wall, restrooms back and to the left. No one was behind the register, but as she looked up at the convex mirrors mounted in the corners she could see someone apparently stocking a shelf in the far rear corner of the room. The person stood up and moved around the warped reflection and stepped into the aisle. "Can I help you?" they asked. Faith blinked, caught off-guard. It was the girl from the diner, earlier in the day, the small one with the turned-back cuffs. She tipped her head to one side. "Do you need anything?"
"Uh, no." Faith looked from side-to-side. There, to the left, just past the register, the glistening hot dogs turning under the lamps. "I'm, uh, I'll be all right."
"Oh, okay." The focus of the girl's eyes shifted over Faith's shoulder as a bell clanged. The Slayer ducked to her right down the outside aisle as the girl went to the register. Faith concentrated on the available drink options as she heard the door chuff open. "Hey, Lewis," the girl said, her voice light and cheerful; she obviously recognized this 'Lewis' and was comfortable with him. Faith glanced up and to her left at the mirror. The distorted image showed a man who appeared to be very tall standing at the counter. The Slayer's brow furrowed slightly; somehow, he looked familiar. The bell chimed again, the door opened, more voices at the front. Faith reached into the cold case, pulled out a Mountain Dew, and turned toward the front of the store, glancing up in the mirror as she did.
She froze. Asshole Romeo lounged against the counter, a large rectangular Band-Aid under his eye. He was not alone. Collarbone Clem wasn't there, but three interchangeably beefy substitutes stood in a loose, shifting triangle behind him. Even in the warped fish-eye reflection, the girl behind the counter did not seem comfortable. Faith had ignored the conversation up until now, but she stopped and focused, her eyes glued to the mirror.
"-thought you might wanna come and hang out, party a little bit." Apparently, leaning in too close to the object of his smarmy repartee was his standard move: he actually leaned over the counter.
"Dalton, you know I don't want to party." The girl was trying to stand her ground. "Why don't you just get what you came for and go?"
"What if I said I came for you?" Even at a distance, Faith shook her head at the leer in his voice.
"I think it's pretty plain she's not interested." The other guy, Lewis, sounded reasonable and bored. "Now, I'm waiting to pay for my gas and this chew, so why don't you grab your chips and beer and skedaddle."
"Wow, sorry, old-timer. I didn't realize we were making you wait. Guys, let the old guy pay for his gas."
"Oh, I'll wait. I don't want to cut in line. I'm in no hurry." Lewis reached for his wallet. "Tell you what, since I'm feeling pretty spry this afternoon, why don't I pay for a case of beer. That way Tori won't get in trouble for selling to minors."
Dalton scoffed. "Like anybody cares. Naw, you go ahead and pay, Lewis, then we'll let Tori close up, since I'm sure she wants to come party with us."
"Down at your little private club there?" Lewis pointed toward the front of the store, his arm weirdly elongated by the mirror. "Pretty sure she's not gonna want to walk in there without a shot of penicillin first." Dalton pushed away from the register, and Tori pulled back into the corner. Faith saw the three amigos arrange themselves so that Lewis was in the middle of a rough square.
"What's your point, Lewis?" Dalton asked. "Are you insulting our clubhouse?"
Faith sighed and shook her head, placed the Mountain Dew on the shelf, then stepped around the back of the store to stand at the back of the aisle that lined up with the front door. "No," she said, "but I am. Pretty sure I got chlamydia from taking a deep breath in that shithole." She rolled her shoulders. "Move along, Sparky."
Dalton's mouth dropped open, then a fire caught behind his eyes. "Hey guys, remember the bitch I said stole my truck? The one I said you'd get a shot at someday? Well, that's her." His buddies split, one going to the left, one to the right, and one charging straight at her. She reached out and grabbed the first thing her right hand touched. It felt hard and satisfyingly heavy as she fired it as hard as she could. The canned chili flew straight and true (it even had a hint of a spiral to it) and struck the guy coming down the aisle square in the forehead with a solid thunk. His legs went rubbery and he fell to the side, one arm sweeping the shelves, but Faith didn't see it; she was already spinning to meet the attack from behind. One guy came around the end of the aisle to her right and launched a looping right hand; she ducked under it and gave him three hard lefts to the kidney. He groaned and she pushed him past. He stumbled forward and tripped over the guy who had taken the can of chili to the forehead. They both went down, entangled.
Before Faith could recover, the third thug grabbed her from behind, wrapping her in a bear hug that pinned her arms to her sides. He spun and slammed her into the cold case. Her head bounced off the glass and stars exploded in her vision. The point of her left shoulder had also hit the door; the joint throbbed. He shifted his weight, clearly intent on doing it again. Faith reached back with her right hand, but her fingers clawed uselessly at his stomach. He swung her again. Faith pulled her knees to her chest and the soles of her boots hit the front of the case. She pushed back as hard as she could and hoped that the glass would hold. It did, barely. He toppled over and landed on his back; the Slayer's full weight came down on his chest and she felt at least one of his ribs snap. His arms came loose and she pushed on over, completing a back somersault. She spun just in time for Kidney-Punch to make a weak grab at her leg. Faith rewarded him with a kick to the armpit that made his arm go dead. She took a step back and blinked; she was dizzy and her left shoulder didn't want to move quite right. Dalton grinned and flipped open a knife he'd taken from his pocket. An ugly glee filled his face as he leaped forward.
Lewis grabbed a case of the generic beer from the display and pivoted on the ball of one foot, like a hammer thrower reaching for a personal best. The weight of twenty-four cans of Milwaukee's most mediocre amplified by the centrifugal force of the tight arc thudded straight into Dalton's midsection. Faith could hear the air whoosh out of his lungs; he staggered back and hit the door, tumbling out onto the narrow sidewalk, writhing like a gutted fish as his paralyzed diaphragm fought to pull in air. Faith stepped over Kidney-Punch and Chili-Can, then grabbed the beer, the cardboard case a bit the worse for wear, and the knife Dalton had dropped. His lungs had started to fill when she dropped the case, end first, onto his stomach. He gasped and rolled onto his side.
"Now," Faith said, crouching beside him, "again, I never stole your truck, I won it, fair and square, but if you'd asked nice, I'd've told you that it's parked in the woods behind jerk-off junction. The keys are under the driver's seat." She held up the knife; it was a nice Cold Steel folding tactical blade. "I think I'll keep this, though, which is more than a fair trade." She looked toward the gas pumps. "I'm assuming that piece of crap is the one you guys rode in on, so, here's the deal. You guys get in and drive away. Take the beer with you, it's a gift. Spend a happy night shooting pool, or crawl back into whatever hole you came out of, I don't care, but the one thing you're not going to do is come back here. You've got one guy with a concussion, one with an arm that won't work right for the next twenty-four hours, and one with at least one broken rib, plus, you're looking a little green right now, so, just know this, that if your little Goof Troop comes back here, I will mop the floor with you, then flush what's left. Okay?" She stood up and stepped back. Dalton struggled to his feet, murderous rage on his face. She read his eyes and shook her head. "Yes, do it, please. I would love to finish this right here." He swallowed hard, then turned and staggered toward the gas pumps. Faith exhaled and backed up until she felt the glass of the store window against her back. The door opened to her right; she cast a baleful glare at the three would-be toughs sidling into the parking lot, bumping into each other in their desire to stay far away from her. They limped and stumbled to the pickup, which roared away in a spew of exhaust and gravel. Faith shook her head, closed the knife, and stuck it in her pocket, then groaned and went into the store.
She got her first good look at Lewis: he was tall, really tall, like, six-and-a-half-feet tall, but carrying weight for a guy six inches shorter. He had a face a peregrine falcon would've been happy to claim, and he looked to be in his mid-fifties. Faith nodded at him. "Thanks."
He shrugged. "Didn't seem like throwin' a case of beer would tax me too hard."
She squinted at him. "Have I seen you before? You look, I don't know, familiar?"
"Oh, oh, that." He nodded. "I work at the county extension office." He pointed toward the intersection. "We always come into the diner for lunch."
"That's where I saw you. God, I knew I had seen you before." Tori smacked a hand on the counter. "You were in the kitchen when we were…" She shook her head. "Yeah. I'm Tori, by the way. Tori Welch." She stuck out a hand.
"Just a minute." The Slayer stretched her left arm over her head, let it collapse from the elbow, and swung it back and forth like she was trying to wash her shoulders. She felt the pop and sighed. "Faith." They shook. She suddenly felt terribly tired as the adrenaline flushed out of her system.
"Well," Lewis said, "Dalton seemed to recognize you."
"Yeah," Faith said, "what's with that asshole?" Lewis lifted his ball cap and scratched his head; he had a surprisingly thick shock of salt-and-pepper hair to go with his aggressively aquiline profile. "Sorry," the Slayer murmured.
Lewis made a face. "After what I just saw, you can say whatever you want. Anyway, Dalton Beck is Heath Beck's son in every sense of the word, and that's enough about that. I don't want to ruin what's left of Saturday night." He leaned against the beer display. "But I'd like to know how he knows you."
"Okay." Faith recounted the previous night's encounter. It took longer than she thought, because laughter from both Lewis and Tori interrupted several times. "And that's it," she finished. "I just came in here to get a hot dog, swear to God. This was all coincidence."
"Wow," Tori said. "Well, grab a hot dog on the house, and soda from the fountain. That way you can refill it."
"Thanks." Faith grabbed what looked like a quarter-pound dog and slathered on mustard and relish, then filled a large cup with Coke. She turned to find Lewis and Tori looking at her. "What?"
"Oh, nothing." Lewis turned to Tori. "Still in the back?" She nodded and he disappeared for a few minutes, then returned, carrying two folding chairs. He popped one open and motioned for Faith to sit, then took the other one for himself.
"Don't you have to go?" Faith asked, settling into the chair and taking a bite of the hot dog. Damn, it might not have been a Nathan's, but, right now, it was about as good as she'd ever tasted.
"Oh, no," he said. "I was just gassing up my truck, I do that most Saturdays. I thought I might just hang out, visit, find out what the young people are talking about these days." Tori snorted. Faith looked back and forth between them.
"You can go," she said. "They're not coming back."
"Oh, I think you're right, they're probably not." Lewis crossed his legs and scratched his knee. "But if they do, I think being around you is probably the safest place to be. Besides, the store closes in, what, Tori, hour-and-a-half?"
"Yeah," Tori said.
"So, I'll just hang out here. Do they still say 'hang out'?" He cast a guileless look at the girls, who giggled.
"We dropped the 'out'," Tori said. "We just 'hang'."
Lewis held up a hand. "See, an evening well spent already." While Faith ate her hot dog, Lewis and Tori picked the aisle where Chili-Can had cleared a shelf. Lewis placed the particular can next to the register. "You can keep that as a souvenir, if you want," he said. Faith just mumbled around a mouthful of meat and bread. They inspected the cold case door the Slayer had used as a launching pad. Lewis declared it cracked, and Tori found a roll of duct tape in the back, which Lewis used to reinforce the door. Faith looked at the silver pattern and wondered what would have happened if the glass had given and her legs had gone into the cold case instead of the force throwing Broken Rib to the floor. Faith found herself intrigued by their interaction; Lewis apparently had known Tori, or at least her family, since she was born, and they had a shorthand back-and-forth. The Slayer helped herself to a refill at the fountain, then took a long drink as Lewis and Tori sat down."
"You said you work for the county extension office," Faith said. "What's that?"
"Oh, well, it's actually funded by the state through the university system, but they have an office in every county, so folks just call the county extension office." Lewis used both hands to settle his cap. "I'm a field specialist in agroforestry."
Faith sucked on the straw and her drink emitted the guttural gurgle of an empty cup. She got up to refill it. "But what do you do?"
"Trees are a big deal up here, so I do a lot of monitoring and testing for forest health, a lot of work testing the soil, measuring salinity and alkalinity." He shrugged. "It's not as exciting as it sounds." Faith nodded.
"I'm not saying we should," the Slayer said, "but nobody has mentioned calling the cops, and you two seem like pretty solid citizens."
Tori shrugged. "No point. The county handles law stuff around here, and they don't come over on weekends. We'd have to call the staties." She glanced at Lewis, who took up the narrative.
"And state patrol does not look kindly on responding to calls about disturbances outside a podunk gas station that didn't result in anyone getting stabbed or shot."
Faith's eyebrows drew together. "So, you're just on your own out here?"
Lewis scratched his chin. "Pretty much, at least on Saturday and Sunday. Ironic, ain't it?" They lapsed into silence; the actual ticking of the clock was audible. Two customers came by and filled up their cars; neither one commented on the apparent social gathering taking place in the store. Finally, Lewis said, "Is it about time to close?"
"Yeah," Tori said. "It'll take me about twenty-five minutes."
"Well, if there's anything I can do to help, let me know," Lewis said. "Then I'll follow you home." He turned to Faith. "And I'll give you a ride, since I don't see another vehicle."
"I can walk, it's not far," Faith said.
Lewis shook his head. "No. Just in case Dalton's watching, you're not going to be walking down the sidewalk." His tone would not tolerate disagreement. "And it's going to be dark soon anyway." He folded the chairs and took them away as Tori began to sweep the floor.
"Um, I can do that, if you want me to." Faith dropped her soda cup in the trash.
"Yeah," Tori replied. "If you could sweep, maybe check the shelves, see if anything's really out of place." She headed toward the register. "That's about all we have to do tonight, since I'm working tomorrow." Faith grabbed the broom. Lewis came out and stood for a moment, watching the activity, then pulled out his keys.
"I'm going to go start the truck," he announced and went outside. Tori's eyes followed him to his vehicle, then she turned to Faith.
"Hey," she said, "would you like to hang out tomorrow?"
Faith stopped sweeping. "I thought we dropped 'out'."
"Ha, ha." Tori glanced out the window. "Me and my friends are just gonna hang out for a while tomorrow afternoon, after we get off work. Would you like to join us?"
Faith picked up the Mountain Dew she'd taken out of the cold case earlier and replaced it. "Are these your friends from earlier today, at the diner?" Tori nodded. The Slayer's eyebrows lifted briefly. "Well, it's not like my dance card is super full. Sure."
"Okay, great." Tori nodded. "Like, four o'clock tomorrow afternoon?"
Faith climbed into the cab of Lewis's pickup. It was very neat: no waste paper, receipts, or sandwich wrappers, maps neatly folded in the door pockets, and the slightest aura of Old Spice. Lewis put the truck in gear and pulled out behind Tori's old Kia. He followed her past the turn for Beth's house, then swung a left. The Sephia pulled into the carport of a ranch-style house with brick below and pale siding above. Lewis pulled even with the driveway and watched across Faith until Tori was inside the house, then he faced front and pulled away. Faith studied his profile for a moment.
"Where to for you?" he asked.
"I'm staying over the diner," she said. "Hey, what's the dillio with the whole 'boo, it's almost dark' thing?"
Lewis kept his eyes on the street, but he hunched forward slightly over the steering wheel. "Well, this is a pretty rural area, and we're basically living in the mountain lion's ecosystem."
"Uh-huh," Faith said in a tone that communicated that she clearly did not believe him. "Pull the other one, then they'll be the same length."
"You ever seen a mountain lion? They're nothing to be messed with."
"No, I haven't, but I've seen rats in Boston." She threw him a challenging look as he turned left onto the highway. "Don't bullshit me, man." The only illumination besides the truck's headlights were the security lamps over the doors of the occupied stores; they didn't provide much, since they all seemed to use forty-watt bulbs.
Lewis pulled over, angling the pickup so the lights framed the outer door. "I really don't want to talk about this right now, and if I hadn't seen what I saw a couple hours ago, I'd tell you to get out of my hair and leave me alone, but…" His mouth set in a firm line. "I can see that you're one who's going to pick at anything that bothers her, and nobody can stop you."
Faith leaned back against the passenger door and smiled. "Lewis, it's like you've known me all my life."
He looked through the windshield and drummed on the steering wheel with his thumbs. The sky was deep purple, with the faintest blush of orange just above the buildings, like ambient glow from the roofs. "Ben closes the diner at, what, two-thirty, three? Are you busy after that?" Faith leaned forward to look out at the street, then turned and looked out through the back window. Lewis nodded. "Okay, I've got some work to do Monday afternoon, south of town, collecting data, taking some readings, checking on a couple of new plants. If you can be at the office by three, you can ride with me, and I'll answer your questions as best I can." He looked over at her. "Take it or leave it."
Faith popped the door and scooted out onto the street. "I'll take it." She slammed the door, crossed the sidewalk, and paused, but the truck was not moving. She inserted the key and turned it. The truck stayed in place, the headlights washing over her. The Slayer shook her head and stepped inside the entryway. When she did, the tires squeaked as Lewis pulled the wheel to the left and the pickup pulled out onto the highway. Faith waited until Lewis passed the intersection, then stepped out onto the sidewalk and flipped the bird at the diminishing headlights. She started to laugh, but it died in her throat. There was a suggestion of a foul odor on the slight breeze, an unsettling sound so faint it might be sensed rather than heard. The palms of the Slayer's hand tingled and the soles of her feet itched inside her boots. She made a sour face and went inside.
Faith woke up, yawned, and took a shower. She realized that she was wicked hungry; that hot dog had been over twelve hours ago. She dressed and slipped on the other pair of boots Joyce Summers had purchased for her. Sometimes she thought she should get rid of them: an extra pair of shoes just took up space in her bag and added weight, but then she argued that they weren't really very heavy (they weren't; they were, in fact, extremely lightweight) and if she got caught in the rain or crossing a river, she needed a spare pair to let her Docs dry out. She galloped down the stairs and out onto the sidewalk. There was a song her dad liked to sing when he'd really tied one on Saturday night, when there was still enough leftover buzz to make him open his mouth instead of close his fist. Out of the clear blue, one of the choruses bing-bonged around her skull:
"There ain't nothin' short of dyin'
Half as lonesome as the sound
On the sleepin' city sidewalks
Sunday mornin' comin' down."
She shook her head. Goddamn, her dad was a maudlin drunk when he wasn't an angry one. She strode down the sidewalk in a town so empty that Armageddon might have come. The air was crisp and cool at elevation, but it was going to be warm later. For a moment she was worried that nothing might be open, but as she crossed the intersection and came to the beginning of the downward slope she could see lights in the grocery store and across the street. She bopped on down to the market's parking lot where the sidewalk ended. She crossed the nearly-empty parking lot and waited for the automatic door to open. She gave a minimalist fist-pump as she stepped into the store. The convenience store didn't have a doughnut counter, but the grocery store did, right over by the deli. She didn't waste time: Pop-Tarts, Hostess Cupcakes, Doritos (Nacho Cheese, thank you), a box of six Boston Creme-filled Doughnuts, a pint of chocolate milk, and a six-pack of Coke. She slowed down on her way to the checkout and grabbed an apple and an orange, then dumped her items on the conveyor belt. The checker was sleepy and did not try to interact, which was fine with the Slayer. She grabbed the plastic bags containing her purchases and hoofed it back up the hill, through the intersection, and up the stairs to the apartment.
She pulled the occasional table around and placed it under one of the windows, dumped out her buffet of sugar, carbs, and fat, then pulled the armchair around and plopped down, grabbing the box of doughnuts. She kicked off her boots and was about to tear into them when she stopped and pulled back her hand. She stared at the feast for a moment, then picked up the apple. "Shut up, Lindsay," she breathed, then bit into the peel.
She finished the apple, dropped the core into the trash, and rinsed her mouth at the bathroom sink, then, conscience appeased, drug the doughnuts toward her. "Come to mama," she whispered. She ate the way she fought, with a ferocity unbridled by the need to observe any rules. Doughnuts, Pop-Tarts, cupcakes, chocolate milk, all attacked and vanquished. The Doritos and Coke could wait; she did need lunch, after all. She sat back and sighed, surrounded by the carcasses of her conquest: silvery foil wrappers, clear crinkled cellophane, white cardboard. The sun had crawled up the face of the building across the way. Faith grimaced and pushed herself out of the chair. She went into the bathroom and brushed her teeth. Lindsay had harped on the importance of dental hygiene (hell, all hygiene) even in the face of Faith's massive indifference, and now the dark Slayer could hear that voice in the back of her head: 'Brush your teeth, and do a good job'. It was fucking annoying, but she did it, or the voice would never go away… or maybe it would go away if she stopped. As she cupped her hands to rinse her mouth, tears dripped from the tip of her nose to mingle with the water swirling down the drain.
She dried her face, roughly enough to redden her cheeks and forehead, then picked up all the wrappers (Lindsay's voice again providing motivation) and deposited them in the trash can, which was plenty full when she finished. She surveyed the room, hands on hips, and said, "Happy, Linz?" Her eyes squeezed shut for a moment, then she sighed and shook her head. The occasional table went back to its spot, and Faith curled up in the armchair, the library book in her lap. As she read, she used the knife she'd taken from Dalton Beck to peel the orange and eat it one segment at a time. It was a good knife, razor sharp, and it went through the rind like it wasn't there. When she had eaten the orange, she put the book down and rinsed the knife blade under the tap in the bathroom. She dried it carefully and tested the mechanism twice; it might be important to brush your teeth, but taking care of your weapons was fundamental. She slipped the knife into her pocket, comforted by its weight and form, then went back to the book, drawn into the tale of a hero who was from nowhere and going nowhere.