BY THE TIME THE BASTARD FUCKER came out, Mila had calmed herself down. Her breathing was steady, her mind clear. Her grip on the steering wheel was solid. He waltzed out of the Waffle House, swinging a to-go bag in one hand. He climbed into his truck and pulled out of the parking lot. She followed after him east on Route 66, the same way she'd followed the first Steven. She hoped she wasn't making the same mistake again. How many red-haired Steves or Stevies or Stevens could there be at Waffle House in Paperflower, Arizona?

    His truck lumbered down to the Navajo Gas Station, where he pulled in front of a pump. Mila parked diagonally beside him and hopped out, gun in hand, locked and loaded, as he put the gas nozzle in his fuel tank.

    Standing with her feet hip-width apart, her arms straight out in front of her, she aimed the gun at the back of his head. She pulled the safety. "Don't even think about trying anything," she threatened. "Else I'll pump your guts full of lead." Trying to pretend she hadn't stolen her threat from Home Alone.

    The bastard fucker slowly turned toward her, his eyes wide and afraid. Mila fed off it, off him being scared and weak, off being the one with the power, off being the one with the gun. No longer would he be the one that had hurt her. She would be the one who had hurt him. The smell of gasoline filled her nose, clogging her throat. She gagged. The dark sky above her, the street lights flickering. The howl of the desert wind, a coyote.

    "What do you want?" His voice shook. "If you want money, it's all—"

    "Shut the fuck up!" Mila snapped. "I'm not here for your money, you piece of shit!"

He took a step backward.

"Don't," Mila warned. "I'm itching to pull the trigger."

He held his hands up in mock innocence. "I don't know what you want from me! Please—"

"SHUT THE FUCK UP!" Mila repeated, her voice shrill. "Shut up shut up shut up shut up SHUT UP!"

He swallowed so loud she could hear it from where she stood.

Mila took a deep breath and rubbed her finger over the trigger. She was the one in power here. She had a gun. She wasn't in danger. She was the danger. She had a gun. The bastard fucker was the one in trouble. She had a gun.

"Tell me," she spun the gun around in her hands, toying with it, "did you rape me when I was twelve-years-old?"

His pants darkened at his crotch. Mila was a god feeding off the smoke of an offering.

"I don't know what you're talking about!"

"Get on your knees," Mila ordered. She had a gun. Good God, was she going to make him suffer! Make him fear for his life! Make him fear for his safety of body! She had a gun!

"What?"

"Do as I say! Get on your goddamn knees!" Mila gestured to the concrete with her gun. She had a gun. She had a gun. She had a gun and she was the one in control and she was the one in power. She had a gun.

He slowly got down on his knees, a tear trickling down his cheek. Mila pressed the muzzle of the gun against his temple, looming over him.

"Now tell me: did you rape me when I was twelve-years-old?" She had a gun she had a gun she had a gun she was a gun.

"I've never..." the bastard fucker swallowed again, tripping over the words. He said it in a whisper, like he was scared of someone overhearing—"I've never raped anyone, I would never—"

Mila circled around him, the gun pressed against his skull, until she was standing directly behind him with it dug into the back of his head. She had a gun. Christ, Christ, Christ. Oh, Christ, she had a gun. "On your stomach," she ordered. She was going to kill him. She was going to kill him she was going to kill him. She was going to rip him to shreds, tear him limb from limb, wear his skin as a trophy.

"Please—"

She kicked him hard in the back, knocking him to his stomach. She had a gun and she was in control and she had a gun. She dug her boot into the center of his back. She had a gun and she was going to use it. It was aimed at the center of his head. She had a gun.

"Did you rape me?" Mila hissed between her front teeth, breathless.

"Stop!" the bastard fucker pled. "Please, stop! You're hurting me! I never—"

Mila laughed. She had a gun. "I'm hurting you? Answer the goddamn question, you fucking fucker fuck!"

"I can't breathe!"

Oh, boo fucking hoo. She had a gun. Mila hadn't been able to breathe when he'd raped her. He'd shoved a gun down her throat and tore her pants around her ankles and she hadn't been able to breathe and she was twelve-years-old. Even standing over him now she was twelve-years-old. She was twelve-years-old and she had a gun. Twelve-years-old twelve-years-old twelve-years-old—

She put all her weight into the foot on his back. She had a gun. "Did. You. Rape. Me?"

"Yes!" he finally said. "Yes, I did! I did! Please let me go! Please! I can't—"

Mila fired a round of bullets into his skull. And kept firing, and firing, she had a gun, and firing, and firing, she had a gun, she kept firing, she had a gun, the blood splattering all over her, oh, God, she had a gun, in her mouth and in her eyes and in her hair, she had a gun, she had a gun, all over her hands and arms, she had a gun, and kept firing, and firing, she had a gun, and firing, and firing—