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market, crying harder now.
    The one with the curved spine glances back over her shoulder, raises a bony, knuckled fist, and shakes it at Pressia. “See what you done?”
    Then, behind her, she hears Mikel yell, “Beast! Beast!”
    Pressia turns around and there’s a wolfish Beast, this one more animal than human. It’s furred, but with glass embedded along its ribs. It runs on all fours with a limp, and then it pauses and rises up on its haunches, nearly the height of a full-grown man. It has clawed feet but no muzzle—instead a pink, nearly hairless human face with a long, narrow jaw and long teeth. Its ribs rise and fall quickly. Across its chest, there is embedded chain link.
    Mikel climbs on top of his oil drum and scurries up a metal roof. The Groupies in the doorway dip inside, covering the door with a slab of wood. They don’t even call to the lost child, who’s still running down the street alone.
    Pressia knows the Beast will take the child first. He’s smaller than Pressia, a perfect target. But of course, it could attack both of them. It’s surely big enough.
    Pressia holds tight to her sack and starts sprinting, her arms pumping and legs moving swiftly. She’s a fast runner, always has been light on her feet. Maybe her father, the quarterback, was fast. Her shoes are worn through on the balls of her feet, so she can feel the ground through her thin socks.
    With the market closed up, this street looks foreign. The Beast is bounding down toward her. She and the little boy are the only ones out now. The little boy must sense that something’s changed, danger in the air. He turns and his eyes grow wide with fear. He stumbles and, terrified, he can’t get up. Closer now, she can see that his face is scalded near one of his eyes, which shines whitish blue, like a marble.
    Pressia runs to him. “Come on!” she says, grabbing under his arms and lifting him up. With only one hand that’s good for gripping, she needs the boy’s help. “Hold tight!” she says.
    She’s looking wildly in every direction for something to climb. Behind them, the Beast is closing in. There’s only rubble on either side of her, but up ahead she sees a building that’s only partially collapsed. It has a barred gate on its metal door—a door to a shop that once had a plate-glass front, like the barbershop. She remembers her grandfather telling her it had been a pawnshop and explaining how people looted them first because they had guns and gold, though gold eventually became worthless.
    Its door is slightly open.
    The kid is screaming now, loud and shrill, and he’s heavier than she expected. His arms are clamped tightly around her neck, choking off her breath. The Beast is so close that she can hear its panting.
    She runs to the door of metal bars, throws it open, swings around and slams it shut, the child still holding on. The door locks automatically.
    They’re in a small bare room, just a few pallets on the floor. She covers the kid’s screaming mouth with her hand. “Quiet,” she says, “just be quiet!” and she backs up to the far wall. She sits down with the boy in her lap in the darkened corner of the room.
    The Beast is at the door in an instant, barking and clawing through the bars. This Beast has no speech, no hands, despite its human face and eyes. The door rattles loudly. Frustrated, it crouches and growls. And then it turns its head, sniffs the air. And, distracted now, it runs off.
    The boy bites her hand as hard as he can.
    “Ouch!” Pressia says, rubbing her palm on her pants. “What was that for?”
    The boy looks at her wide-eyed as if it surprised him too.
    “I was kind of expecting a thank-you,” she says.
    There’s a loud bang from the other side of the room.
    Pressia gasps and turns. The boy looks too.
    A trapdoor has been slapped open and a guy’s head and shoulders have popped up from a room below. He has mussed hair and dark, serious eyes. He’s a little older than Pressia. He says, “Are