WAFFLE HOUSE was open 24 hours a day, seven days a week. Mila's plan was to spend 24 hours in it at a time, go to the motel and sleep it off, then come back for more. The quicker she could get this over with, the quicker she could move on. Both from her past and this place.

    As she pinched herself to stay awake, the waiter—a stranger; Louise had left hours ago—brought her another glass of soda. She guzzled it down; she'd need the caffeine. The doors swung open. And he walked in.

    Mila's eyes followed him, her throat closing up. Wispy red hair. Watery blue eyes. Blue eyes blue eyes blue eyes blue eyes. Maybe about the same age as he'd been—she wasn't sure. Back then, all adults had seemed the same age. She'd been so young, then. So, so young.

    He plopped himself down at a booth in the far corner of the restaurant, looking over the menu. The waiter walked over and took his drink order, then brought him a steaming cup of coffee and a glass of water. As the bastard fucker sipped his coffee and flipped through a newspaper, the waiter brought him a chocolate chip waffle and a plateful of bacon. He took his first bite. Mila went in for the kill.

    She slid out of her booth and marched to his, summoning all the bravado she could. As she walked, she forced the thought through her mind—I'm going to kill you. She hoped she scared him. She hoped she scared him. She hoped she... "Sorry to bother you." Her voice was barely a whisper. She felt outside her body. "You look familiar. I'm trying to place it... Rob, was it?" She knew his name. Knew the bastard fucker's name was Steve, or Steven, or Stevie. Something like that. But she couldn't lead him too far on, make him think she really knew him...

    "Steven." He wiped his mouth with a napkin. He even finished chewing and swallowing before he spoke like a bastardous gentleman. Mila's body hummed with rage and adrenaline. "Steven Powell. You don't look familiar..."

    Oh, shut up. Mila's body froze. Steven. No way.

    It couldn't be this easy. Where were the trials and tribulations? Where were the grueling hours standing guard at Waffle House? Where were the interrogations? She couldn't believe anything could ever be this easy.

    She forced a smile. "Oh! Okay. Never mind. Doesn't ring a bell. I could have sworn I recognized you."

    "It's all right!" Steven, the bastard fucker, the less-than-human thing that haunted her nightmares and had raped her when she was twelve-motherfucking-years-old, smiled at her. "No worries."

    Mila forced her limbs to move, to walk back to her own seat. She sipped her soda, trying to make her body feel normal again, feel something again. Her hash browns had gone cold long ago. She wasn't twelve-years-old anymore, she reminded herself. Wasn't twelve-years-old. Had a gun. Wasn't a child anymore. Had a gun in her bag. In her bag which was sitting right beside her. She wasn't twelve. She had a gun. No one was ever gonna hurt her again.

    She was a jackrabbit staring out at a coyote that had no idea she was watching him. Safe, for now. Safe, but only for so long.

Or maybe the coyote was the one in danger.

Because Mila was going to murder him and eat his guts and his bones, raw.

    The bastard fucker ate his waffle and bacon, downing his cup of coffee. When he was nearly finished, Mila paid for her own food. She was worlds away. On the ceiling. Not in her body. She could have been selling her soul to the devil for all she knew. All she was focused on was him, that fucker, that vile, putrid being. Out of the corner of her eye, his presence pulsed red like a heartbeat. Like blood, like blood. Blood. Mila saw his blood in her head, his blood being spilled, his blood soaking her to the bones. Blood! Blood! Bathing in his blood! Oh, God! Oh, God!

    She sat down at her own booth, blood pounding in her head, in her veins. She waited. As the bastard fucker got up to pay, she shouldered her bags and got up to leave, hiding in her car. She watched the exit, a coyote stalking its prey. Except—she reminded herself—she wasn't the coyote, she wasn't the predator. She was still the jackrabbit, the prey. Always had been, always would be. Because in this story, the jackrabbit kills the coyote, and the prey kills the predator. Not the other way around.

    Holding her head in her hands, her brown eyes glowed yellow beneath the streetlight. She took a deep breath.

    The bastard fucker walked out to his car, blissfully unaware of what was about to happen to him. Just like she'd been. Just like she'd been. Just like...

    Jesus fuck, Mila! You're okay, you're okay, you're okay!

    He pulled his car out of the parking lot and eased onto the road. Mila waited a beat and pulled out behind him, making sure to keep enough distance between the two of them. She couldn't have him getting suspicious. But who was she kidding? He was a man! A cishet white man! He didn't have to worry about things like this, about being stalked and followed on a dark desert road. He didn't have to worry about strange men in strange restrooms putting a gun in your mouth and pulling your pants down around your knees, about being raped when you're twelve-years-old, about being cornered like prey. Things like that happened to cishet white men, but they didn't have to worry about them. Not like she did—because of him. Because of everyone like him. Jesus Christ...

    He meandered east on Route 66 toward the desert, past the main strip. Just before he reached the Navajo Gas Station, he turned into an RV and trailer park, snaking through its backroads until it opened up into a neighborhood of small, run-down houses. As he pulled into the driveway of a tiny, terracotta-colored Spanish-style home, Mila drove past it to the end of the block. Then she doubled back to the house, parking across the street and several houses down.

    Mila pulled a heavy black sweatshirt over her t-shirt despite the warm night. She slid her gun into the front pocket of her sweatshirt, feeling the cool rubber against her skin. Pulling her hood up over her head, she crept across the street, her head tilted toward the cracked concrete.

    As she made her way around the back of the house, she ducked beneath the windows. She couldn't risk anyone peeking out and seeing her. She hoped if someone saw her from one of the other houses, she'd look like a shadow moving through the night—nothing to cast a second glance at.

    The back of the house had one window, framed with peeling emerald green shutters. A short, rickety staircase led up to the back door. She tiptoed up the stairs, testing her weight before each step, and gently tested the door handle. Just as she suspected: locked.

    Mila peered through the window beside the door, but no one was around. She fished two bobby pins out of her hair and got to work picking the lock. When she heard a click, she slowly pushed the door open. As she stepped inside and pulled the door shut behind her, barely breathing, her eyes and ears were on high alert for any potential threat. She looked around. The back door led into a kitchen with a set of white plastic appliances and countertops the same emerald green as the shutters outside. The sounds of a football game filtered through a door into the rest of the house. Around the edges of it, the blue light of a television flickered.

    Heart pounding in her chest, she peered through the crack in the doorway. A game played on a huge, thick television. The bastard fucker grabbed a beer from a mini-fridge in the corner and popped it open.

Mila pushed the door open just enough she could fit the barrel of the gun through.

After taking a long swig, the bastard fucker set the beer down on the coffee table with an "Aaah."

    She pulled her gun out of her sweatshirt pocket.

    He stretched, lifting his arms over his head.

    She pulled the safety. The TV was loud enough he couldn't hear it. She was sure of it.

    He lifted the bottom of his shirt. Horror and bile rose in the back of Mila's throat.

    She carefully aimed the gun at his thigh. She'd shoot him there first, then slowly move up his body until she shot him in the head. He'd die somewhere along the way, but she wanted to make this as painful for him as possible. Her finger shook on the trigger.

    His shirt caught on something. He adjusted his grip and pulled it over his head, tossing it to the floor as he settled into the recliner. Mila's eyes widened. His shirt had gotten stuck on a binder. A goddamn binder.

    He was wearing a goddamn binder.

    Mila bit her tongue so hard she tasted blood. Hands trembling, she pulled the safety and shoved her gun deep inside her pocket. She shut the door and stood, breathing heavily, with her hand against her chest. Then she walked back outside to her car. She tossed the gun to the passenger seat, held her head in her hands, and screamed.

    What was she doing? She'd been so sure she'd had the right guy! There hadn't been a doubt in her mind! What if she'd killed him? What if she'd killed him? What if she'd killed this innocent man?

    She'd been so sure. So, so, so sure. How could she know she'd ever have the right guy? What if the next older redhead named Steve or Steven or Stevie came in, and she followed him home and shot him, only to realize she'd gotten the wrong guy, again? What if she only realized her mistake too late?

    In her head, she stood over this Steven's body, a hole in his head where she'd blown his brains out. Blood and gray matter splattered the carpet beneath his head, seeping in, staining. A bit of blood freckled her hands and her gun. A drop dripped down her cheek. She noticed the binder peeking out beneath his t-shirt. And in her head, she realized what she'd done: she'd killed the wrong guy.

    Or what if she killed the wrong guy and was arrested? What if she was never able to kill the demon that haunted her? What if she was never able to move on?

    She wanted to escape. Live out the rest of her days on the run, with a new name every couple years, a new hairstyle, a new identity. Never going to the same place, or being the same person, twice.

    Did Mila even exist anymore? Had she killed the person she'd used to be? Had she ever even existed in the first place? Was this body ever anything more than just that—a body?

    Jesus fuck! Mila needed to get out of here. Jesus fuck! Mila needed to get out of here, get back to Waffle House. Jesus fuck! Or back to the motel. Or wherever the fuck she was going. Jesus fucking Christ! Oh, God! She needed to get out of here. Oh, God! Oh, God! Oh, God—!