Blackmail Earth

Chapter 9





Jenna’s stomach started to swirl the second she spotted the black Ford Fusion waiting outside her building. She loved the silence of the day’s awakening hour, when she’d rise at three thirty to a strangely subdued city, but that stillness vanished with synaptic speed when she spotted the shiny beast that signaled the beginning of the morning blur.

Before she made it to the curbside, the spry driver was holding open the rear door of the hybrid. She eased into the backseat, more intensely awake than usual because Dafoe had promised to meet her at five by the unobtrusive side entrance that everyone on The Morning Show, including visitors, was expected to use. In the spirit of reciprocity, Jenna had offered Dafoe her guest room. But he said he’d get up just a little earlier and drive down; Forensia, he’d explained, would be fresh from her initiation and wouldn’t be able to take over for him until “the cocks crowed.”

“Can she handle the whole operation?” Jenna had asked him on the phone.

“Forensia can handle anything,” Dafoe had answered. “Plus, she’ll have Bayou keeping his eye on the herd. She’ll be good to go.”

But would Jenna be “good to go” with Dafoe watching her race through all her primping and prep for The Morning Show? Not until this instant, driving toward the studio, had she realized that she’d never invited a love interest to the set.

Just be on time, Dafoe. It would be a huge hassle with security if he ran—

Ah, there he was, standing by the entrance, chatting to one of the black-suited security staff. About … cows, she overheard as the network’s doorman helped her out of the Fusion. That subject sure could get old fast, she worried. A friend had married a prominent rock drummer, who’d talked about nothing but drumming for the first five years of their marriage. Jenna’s friend had told her that when her husband had suggested bedroom spanking, she couldn’t help wondering if he’d wanted to replace his tom-toms with her buttocks.

Dafoe saw her and smiled: toothy and ear to ear with the sweetest crinkles around his eyes. Jenna’s doubts fled. His swift, head-to-toe glance made her happy that she’d chosen her outfit with him in mind: a white, crinkled poplin dress with a scoop neck. As summery as the weather, the dress flattered Jenna in all the right ways.

They approached metal doors two stories high. Stage hands used this entrance to roll equipment, including cranes and cherry pickers, into the building. Each door was reinforced with steel plates to stop bullets and bomb fragments. To the right stood two security officers by a standard-size metal door that had the same steel-plate reinforcement. Jenna told the men that Dafoe was a friend.

As soon as they entered the building, they came to the network’s second line of defense, two security officers who worked behind four inches of bulletproof glass. The “two Joes”—Joe Santoro and Joe English—smiled broadly, which gave away their thoughts as readily as Jenna’s blush revealed her own fizzy feelings.

She swiped her ID card and looked into a screen that read her eyes. Dafoe slid his driver’s license through a narrow slot, then watched Santoro study the license, type on a keyboard, and stare at a computer’s screen, waiting to see if a crime report started flashing. Seconds later he announced, “He’s clean.”

The other Joe handed Dafoe a clip-on badge, warning him not to take it off in a heavy, put-on New York accent. “Someone, he sees ya widout it, youse goin’ down for a cavity check, and I don’t mean youse teef.” The two Joes laughed.

“Real jokers,” Dafoe said to Jenna as they hurried to the elevator along with other new arrivals.

“I don’t know about that. They’ve given me three cavity searches so far. They keep saying it’s for security purposes, but I’m beginning to wonder.”

Laughing quietly, they walked past the show’s glassed-in, street-level studio, where fans could watch the proceedings from outside. The glass was deceptively thick—seven inches that could stop bullets and bomb fragments—and extended all the way up through the third-floor set. Television in the age of terror.

Jenna led Dafoe into an elevator with the same two-story metal doors. Massive, especially by the claustrophobic standards of the city. They stepped off on the third floor, bearing left to go through another standard-issue metal door that took them into a long hallway.

“We’re entering the brain trust,” Jenna joked.

“Meaning?” Dafoe still walked with a big smile.

“This is the floor with the greenroom and all the offices for everyone on the show.”

“And there you are,” Dafoe said, pointing to her photograph, one of the many familiar faces that lined both sides of the hallway.

“How was the drive down?”

“No problem. I even found a parking spot on the street for Bessie.” His ridiculous name for his old International Harvester pickup. “I doubt anyone’s going to want to steal her.”

“You never know,” she said cheerily, smitten not by the prospect of the truck’s theft, of course, but by her own feelings for the vehicle: She liked the musty smell of old hay, and the memory of Dafoe’s arm around her shoulders when she cuddled up to him on the bench seat.

They came to yet another set of metal doors that led them past the third-floor studio, even larger than the one below. Jenna’s weather set was in view, but they hurried past the studio almost as quickly as the grips and stagehands and gaffers who raced to ready the sets. Four of them darted past the couple and ducked into the greenroom, where food for staff and guests was provided. The buffet was delicious and included something for every taste.

“You can help yourself whenever you want to,” she told him as they moved on. “Your little badge gets you in there, too.”

The really big names were never taken to that greenroom. VIPs, like Brad or Angelina, or the president, were hustled directly to a special, exclusive greenroom.

The Morning Show had more than fifty staffers, and the bustle at this hour equaled the energy of any other busy studio at midday. Jenna noticed the looks that she and Dafoe were garnering, even a few hellos from staffers generally more taciturn, and knew that she’d be prime gossip on the network grapevine. Comes with the territory, she reminded herself.

Her office was at the end of the hall. As they approached, Nicci called out, “It’s a fatty,” and thrust a thick packet of papers into Jenna’s hands—a set of computer modeling data on worldwide weather. The report was generated by the show’s assistant meteorologist, who worked the overnight shift and was often gone by the time Jenna came in. Years of experience let Jenna usually guess the report’s length within a few pages. Seventy-two, she figured, then looked: seventy. Not bad.

“I remember you,” Nicci said to Dafoe, offering him a smile that seemed to expand her size-two proportions. “Our helicopter almost hit you.”

“Yes, that would be me, the helipad.”

Nicci turned her barely bundled energy on Jenna: “Weather girl, I’m having problems getting video of a huge tornado down in Arkansas. I’m on my way to pound some heads and find out why.”

“Anybody hurt?”

“No.”

“Tell me it’s not more trailer park footage.”

“No, that’s what’s so great,” Nicci exclaimed. “It’s a gated community.”

“Yes!”

The two women high-fived.

“We’re so tired of seeing trailer park video,” Jenna explained to Dafoe, “that sometimes it’s nice to be reminded that weather is a great equalizer.”

“Tell me about it,” Dafoe said sympathetically.

“I talked to the affiliate,” Nicci said. “Supposedly you can see the actual gate sticking out of the roof of a McMansion. Oh, and a flyaway mattress the size of Manhattan jammed into a bay window. Inquiring minds want to know.”

“Any interviews?” Jenna asked, already flipping through the weather data.

“With the owner of that house, who—get this—is the conductor of the Little Rock Symphony. But the affiliate says she sounds like she’s straight out of Bah-stuhn.” Working the Kennedy accent.

“Why can’t people fulfill their cultural stereotypes? Is that asking too much?” Jenna pleaded playfully. “It would make our jobs so much easier. Do we have anyone who actually sounds like they’re from Little Rock?”

“I’ll check on that, too.” Nicci rushed off.

Jenna was about to get serious with the weather packet when she realized that an important and highly appealing task had yet to be undertaken. She closed the door, walked to Dafoe, and kissed him. “Good morning.” She clasped her hands around his head. “You look great.”

“You really do.”

“Well, get a gander now because they’ll be putting me through makeup in a little bit.”

Another quick peck and she planted herself back at her desk, scrolling through a list of video on her three large computer screens—the two on the sides angled slightly, like a three-way dressing room mirror. As she shifted the cursor over each listing, weather video from around the world came to life on the screen to her right, just enough to give her a flavor of the disasters of the day. She had three minutes and fifty seconds to fill in each of her four Morning Show appearances, and each had to be packaged differently to keep viewers watching, even though they would contain the same key information.

She explained to Dafoe what she was doing. “If this is putting you to sleep, you can go hit the buffet. The food really is good.”

“No worries. It’s just good to see you.”

“Back at you. I’m looking forward to the end of this show.”

She returned her attention to the videos, then reviewed the rest of the world’s weather. She checked the Maldives, as she did most days of late, thankful that there were no tsunamis or bulletins about anything turbulent—meteorologically speaking, anyway—taking place. Rick Birk, the network’s crusty old investigative reporter, was nosing around the capital city, no doubt in search of Rafan or anyone else he thought could give him a lead on the Islamists terrorizing the country. At least Birk had given up badgering Jenna for contacts.

She heard a knock and looked up, instantly charmed by the appearance of Kato, a sable German shepherd bomb-sniffing dog, and his handler, Geoff Parks.

“May I?” Jenna always checked with Geoff, who nodded. “Kato, come,” she called.

The dog walked over to Jenna and looked at her with what Jenna always felt was a smile. “Kato, sit,” she said.

The shepherd snapped to and waited, ears rotating like radar dishes, always on alert. “Kato, shake.” The dog extended his right paw. This was no sloppy stab at a handshake—Kato had a king’s dignity.

She held his thickly padded paw. “You’re a sweetie.” Glancing at Geoff, she said, “Dafoe here has an amazing border collie on his dairy farm. Totally trained for herding.”

“Really?” The two dog fanciers started talking. Jenna patted Kato’s head—their daily ritual—and turned back to her work. Kato and his master exited moments later.

“You’ve got more security than the airports,” Dafoe said.

“Hmmm. I wonder who’s doing it right,” Jenna answered over her shoulder. “Them or us? Nobody’s blowing up our sets. Of course, we get a lot fewer people coming through here, and most of them aren’t looking to hijack the network.”

A stylishly coiffed dark-haired woman poked her head in the door. “Are you reh-dee?” she asked in a distinctively French accent.

“Be right there,” Jenna said and the woman walked away. “Hair and makeup,” she explained to Dafoe. “I’ll look a little different when you see me next.”

A quick stroll across the hall landed her in Chantal’s hands. The woman exclaimed, as she did most days, “You ’ave zee most boo-tee-full ’air.” Jenna sat in one of five chairs before a mirror that extended across the entire wall. She still had the packet of worldwide weather in her hands. Her attention was quickly captured by data about thunderstorms. These could be real beauties, she thought, spotting a temperature difference of almost one hundred twenty degrees from the minus forty degree top of the sixty-thousand-foot-high system to the ground. That could produce awesome T-storm activity.

She’d have to keep an eye on this one. The jet stream, cruising at 175 miles an hour, could help pull the budding storm right into the troposphere. Or, to put it another way, right smack into the face of every New Yorker. A funnel cloud—aka tornado—could follow. One of the interim signs she’d be looking for would be hail the size of baseballs. The Razorback State didn’t have a monopoly on twisters.

Nicci popped into hair and makeup. “I’ve got Cindy”—as in Clark, chief of the National Weather Service—“for a quick Q and A on the storms.”

“I was just reading about the biggie heading this way.”

“Not to mention Florida, Texas, and California.”

“Really? I hadn’t gotten that far yet.”

“You want to do a minute with Cindy?”

“Sure. Let’s ask her to talk about protecting yourself from electrical storms. We haven’t done that in a while.”

“I’ll prime her.” Nicci pivoted to leave, then spun back. “Dafoe? He’s a lot cuter without the gun.”

Chantal finished Jenna’s hair and makeup and stood back to admire her handiwork. “Boo-tee-full, boo-tee-full,” trailed Jenna to wardrobe, where she donned an Anna Sui dress with a hint of red, a color that always looked stunning with her white-blond hair. This completed her transformation from an attractive businesswoman to a Morning Show superstar. A few moments later, in her office, she watched the makeover register on Dafoe’s face—and wished she hadn’t. His lips tightened, and he actually pulled his head back a couple of inches, as if he feared touching her now. She hated having that effect on people but it was a fact of television life: every hair in place; lips reddened; eyelashes curled; and her cheeks, chin, nose, and brow powdered precisely. A friend once said Jenna looked so perfect going on the air that she appeared untouchable and not quite real. “Like a porcelain doll.”

“I’m still me,” she said to Dafoe softly, “the woman who was kissing you just a little bit ago. It’s just that you can’t kiss this me because it would smudge my makeup.”

“I know what you mean. I run into that every day with the cows.”

She laughed, loving the fact that he could make a joke of it so quickly. She settled at her computer and saw a message from Nicci saying that she’d finally run down the tornado video.

Then Jenna realized that she could be sitting front and center for New York City’s own tornado. Better check the roof cam.

It was hard to see much in the dim early daylight but she definitely spied clouds massing to the northeast.

Nicci buzzed her that the morning meeting was about to start.

Every day at 5:45 A.M., they convened in executive producer Marv Balen’s office. The twit would offer a show overview that Jenna could listen to with one ear: Her role was so defined that on most days she could keep paging through updated weather summaries while he yammered. She’d been blessed with a photographic memory for weather charts, and had been studying them for so long that she could spot a troublesome trend in a nanosecond.

Jenna discreetly slipped her earpiece into place. Her long hair made its presence nearly undetectable. On set, Marv, Nicci, and James Kanter, the wiry director, used the earpiece system to talk to her and the other on-air staff. Marv just barked, a one-note dog; Kanter almost always remained collected; and Nicci said only what was necessary. During the morning meeting, the earpiece allowed Nicci to dart away to monitor weather news and relay anything important to Jenna.

Marv’s big announcement was that they’d landed presidential candidate Roger Lilton as the show’s first featured interview. “He’s going to talk about his relationship with that GreenSpirit witch and his campaign manager told me a few minutes ago that Lilton’s going to denounce her as a ‘freak.’ Quite a coup, folks.”

No kidding, Jenna thought. The only thing better would be to have GreenSpirit walk onto the set in the middle of Lilton’s interview.

While Marv briskly laid out the show’s flow, periodically verifying details with the weary overnight staff, Geoff and Kato passed through the room, the shepherd sniffing everywhere. Jenna patted him as he passed; he gave her a wag.

After the meeting, Jenna found Dafoe sitting on the couch in her office, texting. He looked up, consternation spelled out on his wrinkled brow.

“I can’t reach Forensia. We text all the time, even when I’m there. It’s a big farm, and it beats shouting. But it’s like she’s disappeared.”

“She’s there. She’s got to be. You said she’s incredibly reliable.”

“She is. Or was, till the other day. But she’s not responding, and I’m worried. It’s not just about her: Those cows have to be milked.” He put away his phone. “Sorry, I know you’ve got your show to think about. You doing okay?”

“Great.” Shorthand for nervous. She always felt nervous going on air, but more than usual this morning because Dafoe was there. Don’t start dwelling on that. “Guess who’s going to be on the show?” He raised his eyebrow. “Lilton. To denounce GreenSpirit.”

“Forensia’s going to be heartbroken. She actually sent him money.”

“If he’s going to have a prayer of winning, he’s got to cut his losses,” Jenna said, which was more generous than she felt: She hadn’t gotten over Lilton’s “dog-and-pony show” comment about the task force.

“I guess nobody loses with honor anymore.”

“Not when you’re within striking distance.”

“So how’s the weather doing?”

“Oh, that,” she joked. “Big thunderstorms. Wait. Hold on.” Nicci’s voice had come alive in her ear. “You hear what’s going on outside?” her producer asked. Jenna paused, nodded to herself: the proverbial bricks tumbling in the sky, getting ready to stone the city.

Seconds later Nicci flew through the doorway. Before she could say a word, Jenna blurted out, “Do they want me on the roof?” She hated going up there. The only time Marv ever wanted her by the roof cam was in a storm. She strongly suspected that he found her instant transformation from staid perfection to total dishevelment—hair flying, hem, too—to be a ratings booster. One of these days, Jenna worried that a powerful gust would pluck her up and throw her down sixty stories, into the maw of Manhattan. Dying with her dainties on full display. And she’d be hard to miss in these red shoes—to highlight the red note in her dress. The guy in wardrobe loved to dress her; Jenna was his Barbie and her outfits were carefully color-coordinated.

“No, not the roof. Even Marv doesn’t want you zapped live.”

“I’m not sure of that.”

Nicci leaned over Jenna’s shoulder and clicked on the camera icon on her computer. Big thunderheads, but still on the horizon. “Time to go. They want you on set. And you, Helipad,” Nicci waved Dafoe up from the couch, “come with us. I’ll park you by Zack.” Head of set security.

Nicci, you’re so trusting, Jenna thought as she followed her producer. Dafoe trailed them down the hall.

Andrea Hanson was already ensconced on the main set, where she would spend the first hour of the broadcast. The chestnut-haired anchor deemphasized her pregnancy as much as she could in autumn’s darker hues. Her face, a little fuller than it had been a few months ago, beamed as beautifully as ever. She had ideal features for morning television: not too sharp, not too bland. Easy on the eyes, in short. For the second hour—the lighter half of the show—Andrea would migrate downstairs to the public studio, where audiences smiled and waved for the cameras through the seven-inch-thick security glass.

Theme music thumped throughout the studio and Jenna watched Andrea come alive, giving the camera her most engaging smile. In minutes, Jenna was chortling with the host. Jenna kept it light, airy as an orchard, before turning to the camera to give an overview of the nation’s weather, gesturing to a blank blue screen as she talked. Viewers at home saw Jenna’s hand heading toward Arizona.

“And it’s scorching in the desert Southwest where temperatures in Phoenix set a new October record of one hundred fifteen degrees. The average high for them this month used to be eighty-eight.”

She was determined not to say “hot and dry” one more time this year, but it slipped out as she spoke over video of the city’s numerous—and long-drained—fountains. Though she cursed herself mentally, Jenna’s voice never faltered as she took viewers on a snappy tour of the West, still moving her hand over the blue screen, before video of the tornado damage in Arkansas appeared, along with Nicci in her ear: “You’ve got Cindy Clark now.”

Jenna chatted about the damage in Little Rock, noting the huge, ungainly looking gate protruding from a roof. As she talked, Nicci told her the mattress was coming up in “Five, four, three…” Jenna timed it perfectly: “And as you can see here, someone’s boudoir is missing a Beautyrest; but as tornado damage goes, this wasn’t too bad, was it, Cindy?”

“No, Jenna, it wasn’t. Only a few minor cuts and bruises. I’d say that Little Rock rode this one out in style.”

Jenna, still standing on the weather set, casually introduced the country’s chief meteorologist, whose face filled the screen and whose practical advice about thunderstorms filled the air. Cindy Clark’s perky visage was quickly replaced by the flat affect of Sondar Hammerson, the Little Rock Orchestra’s conductor, who was so boring that Marv was immediately in Jenna’s ear saying “Wrap it ASAP. I’m hearing crickets”—millions of viewers clicking their remotes to change channels. “Switch to the roof.”

Jenna cut off Hammerson at the first opening and ushered viewers to the rooftop camera as if that had been planned all along, stifling her own surprise when she saw the sky filled with massively thick clouds. They’d moved into the city far faster than she’d ever seen before, although extreme weather events were beginning to feel routine.

“This is the view from our rooftop garden, and if you think those are thunder clouds that we’re seeing, you’re right. There’s a whopper of a storm brewing out there. Here,” she pointed to the right side of the screen, “you can see the classic anvil shapes of thunderheads. So, New York, get ready, because this monster is marching right at us. We’re already seeing rain on our Doppler. So far it’s evaporating before it hits the ground, but that’s not going to last long. Florida, Texas, California, we’ve got your back, too. Andrea?”

Hanson thanked her and teased Lilton’s imminent appearance as the show’s theme music signaled the first commercial break. Jenna hurried over to Dafoe. Catching his grimace as he looked up from his iPhone, she guessed that he still hadn’t reached Forensia. She hoped the young woman was all right.

Dafoe managed a smile, though, and a whispered compliment: “You were great.”

Viewers could not possibly have heard him—TMS was off the air—but she shushed him anyway: no unnecessary talk anywhere near the set. A moment later she violated her own dictum: “There he is,” she said softly as Lilton loped toward Andrea. The lean sixty-two-year-old—a runner—always presented an effortlessly fit image, which in politico speak translated into “readiness.” And he sported his never-changing attire: dark blue suit, white shirt, red tie. Nothing subtle about the underdog’s campaign duds. Every candidate had a stump speech, but Lilton also had a stump suit.

“Twenty seconds,” the floor director snapped. Andrea shook Lilton’s hand and gave him her familiar smile. Boom mikes hovered over the two of them as they sat down.

“And in five, four, three…”

The commercials ended and the cameras went live. Andrea flipped aside her luscious mane of dark hair, warmly welcomed viewers back, and introduced Lilton. The candidate nodded genially as Hanson leaned forward, gesturing directly at him. Her manner reminded Jenna why Hanson’s numbers had dominated morning television for five straight years: The host could switch from the sweetness of an ingénue to the toughness of a federal prosecutor faster than most people could exhale.

“That witch is haunting you, isn’t she, Senator Lilton?”

“I’m glad you brought that up, Andrea, because the president has been trying to make it appear that someone I knew forty years ago—”

“In the biblical sense.” Andrea conjured her most impish smile.

“I was involved with her forty years ago and—”

Andrea interrupted again: “How did you two end up so much in sync? That’s what everyone wants to know. You called the Presidential Task Force on Climate Change a ‘dog-and-pony show’ two days after GreenSpirit used those exact words.”

“I’d like your viewers to think about something, Andrea. If I’d been in touch with Linda Pareles, as the president suggests—”

“Linda Pareles? You won’t even use her chosen name: GreenSpirit?”

“I knew her as Linda Pareles. As I was saying, if I’d actually been in touch with Pareles, why would I quote her and open myself up to the ridiculous accusation that I’ve got a witch as a consultant?”

“Nancy Reagan had an astrologist.”

“I’ve never consulted with a witch or an astrologer, and I never will. More than three decades of public service informs my decisions, and my campaign has attracted first-rate foreign and domestic policy advisers because they know that in a few days voters will be making the most critical choice in our nation’s history. The American people are not going to let themselves get sidetracked by this sideshow.”

“Voters are sure paying attention to the YouTube video of you and GreenSpirit saying the same exact words. That’s got a lot of traction.”

“And if you were to do a simple Internet search, you’d find that dozens of bloggers also called the task force a dog-and-pony show. Look, in plain English, I consider GreenSpirit to be a wacko. I’ve had no contact with her in thirty-eight years.” Now Lilton leaned forward. “Andrea, the real issue—”

“Is how you’re going to get rid of your witch problem long enough to win this election? Your numbers are tanking.”

“My numbers are strong. We’re gaining momentum in all the swing states. As for Linda Pareles, I’m addressing that issue head-on. I think the American people are too smart to fall for any more of the president’s cheap, diversionary tactics. Reynolds has failed to recognize, much less address, the very real danger that climate change presents to the vital national security of our great country. We need to have leadership that can assert itself on the world stage. There are real issues facing the American people…”

As Lilton launched into political boilerplate, Jenna guided Dafoe away from the set. Marv was no doubt barking at Hanson to end the interview as fast as she could: The “witch haunting” had been the “gotcha” question, and now it was history.

Jenna and Dafoe hurried to her office. She closed the door, turned to him, and put her arms around his neck.

“We have about sixty seconds,” she told him. “Smudge me. Please.”

* * *

Rain splatters the packed earth, pouring down so hard that the fat drops ping when they strike the brittle branches, muffling the panicky footfalls of a murderous chase. They strike her face. She tries to blink them away, but can’t.

Ping, ping, ping.

The rain blurs her vision. Tree limbs tear her skin, rip her clothes. Shredded strips hang from prickly snags. Dense dead woods. She can’t see ten feet. Doesn’t dare look back. Not anymore. Run, she screams at herself. Don’t f*cking stop.

* * *

He checks his watch. Half an hour’s gone by. She’s getting tired, can’t keep it up much longer. He can hear her horror, even from here. It’s clawing at her throat. She wants to find a nice little hidey-hole, but he’s not going to let that happen. And the crying sounds so good, like the kind of fear you can’t stop.

A storm like this can wipe away her trail. Probably what she was hoping for when she started running. But she can’t outrun him, and the rain’s washing away his tracks, too. They’ll be floating all the way down to the Hudson and halfway around the world, like ghost prints. You can’t see them, but they’ll be there. He’s already fleeing the scene of the crime and the real fun’s not even begun. The perfect murder.

What’s she going to do? Get on a broomstick and fly away? This is easy. Every step’s taking her right where he wants her.

Yippie-yi-yo-ki-yay. Herding time. Heading to a nice cozy cabin. She’ll slam the door and lock it (he’s been there, so he knows, he knows), and he’ll laugh, ’cause there’s no keeping him out. A door doesn’t say, “Stay out.” It says, “Come on in and take your fun. It’s waiting right here for you, all roasty warm.” Still, when she slams it, he’ll take a breath. Long as there aren’t any other witches around, he’ll have all the time he needs for all the vengeance he wants. She doesn’t have a phone. He’s seen this before. If she had a phone, she’d have it out by now. Her hands are empty. But not her heart. It’s filled with fear, and she’s earned every bit of it. She just didn’t know when to stop, did she? You don’t do what she did to him.

He pulls a swatch of purple fabric off a branch. Look at that, will you? There she goes again. She just can’t keep ’em on.

Now she’s less than a hundred feet away. So tired she’s bent over. Wet, torn clothes clinging to her, showing off lots of everything. She’s trying to stand straight so she can look back this way. Hasn’t done that in a while. Got herself all chesty now, sticking them out, rising up and down. Big breaths.

There’s someone in the woods and he’s coming after you. There’s someone in the woods … Talking to himself as he steps out from behind a tree, waving both arms in the air. Her eyes go as big as pinecones. She starts to back away, falls, drags herself to her feet.

There’s someone in the woods … He’s running hard enough to pound the earth to death.… And he’s coming after you.