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human at any time—a little kid walking to school, grandma going to church, your friends, my friends … those who might become aware someday could all be made into rats.”
She frowned. “Rats. I hate that term.”
“Well, when a soul’s taken and the human is reduced to almost nothing, scratching and clawing for life, that’s the result—a rat. There’s no other way to put it. And it’s what the darks are doing and what they’ve been doing.”
“That’s crazy talk.”
“It’s not. You know I think the world of you, but this time you’re wrong.” He walked to the kitchen and then down the hall. “You’re wrong!”
“Wait!” She heard a door slam shut.
    _______
    A t three-thirty in the morning, I couldn’t lay in bed anymore. The bed sheet was knotted around my legs and no position was comfortable. I was suffering from BDS (Boring Dream Syndrome), had been falling in and out of a dream about making vegetable soup. In the interims, when I was awake and my subconscious didn’t have me chopping onions, carrots, or potatoes, I thought about Derek and about relationships in general as well as one could in the middle of the night. Most of the couples I knew didn’t work out or work well, like my parents, my friend’s parents, and my friends themselves. Derek and I could work. I was kicking myself for having been too chicken to make a move the times I’d had the chance. But if I had and he wasn’t down, our friendship would never be the same and I really valued our friendship. Life was a lot simpler when I didn’t think about boys or soup.
    Screw this. I got up. I’d be at work early but it was better than lying awake hoping for a half-hour of sleep that may or may not come.
    I parked, eyes watering. The toxic fog was there again. I’m having a flashback? What the hell is it? With the key in the deadbolt and a yawn stuck in my throat, I waved the glittering mist away. Damn, it’s cold. I went directly to the coffee machine and started its cycle. On the way to turn on the lights, I froze. The sound of papers being shuffled and casters grinding against carpet hit my ears. No one would have been there that early except the boss, and Deborah’s car wasn’t outside. Was it? The coffeemaker started to sputter, the wall clock above the front door ticking loudly.
    I took another step and stopped. The thud of boots came from the office and I snuck behind the bakery case, anxiety shooting through my veins. The light coming from the parking lot was too dim to show the person, who was four feet away from me on the other side of the glass. Average height and build, dark pants, dark shirt was all I could make out. Icy sweat started to drip down my forehead and I bit my tongue to keep my teeth from chattering.
    He went to the coffee machine and fiddled with its dials before pacing by the front windows for a full minute. He suddenly turned in a circle and started toward the office but then changed his mind and wandered past me (and the cash register) to the storeroom. I heard him milling around some more for another two or three minutes. What’s he doing? He passed me again and went back the way he’d come.
    My brain screamed, “Get out!” but I didn’t move because my breathing had stalled, my muscles were rigid, and my heart was thrashing my chest. How do I get to the back door? Just follow the squares on the floor and go around the corner. Follow the white squares. I was almost standing when I heard his boots again. Run. The panic that had held me in place spurred me and I tore through the hall to the back door, sliding at the corner on the tile. I’d taken hold of the knob when my scalp stung, my ponytail yanked like a bridle. I went down, my head cracking against the floor. His boot came down on my ribs and then again into my side, driving my body left. Hard leather, a pointed toe, and a thick heel smashed my back and stomach, each blow calculated, awaiting my recovery before inflicting more damage. I was