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gravel road. You know from experience that no one will find you.
    “Hey,” braces girl says, “I think I want to go back home. This is a little—”
    “Yeah, hold on, I have to see what’s wrong with the car.”
    She nods, nervously. You get out, pretend to look at the engine, walk back around to her side. “Something’s smoking,” you say. “I should probably call for a tow. Could you get out for a second? I think the number’s under the seat.”
    She nods, reassured, though you sure as fuck don’t know why. This is the worst part. The last moment they trust you, when some part of them must know they shouldn’t. She opens the door.
    She gets out.
    6. Dirty Harry
    The prudent serial killer’s guide to avoiding the cool, yet bureaucratic, hand of the law.
    • Move around! Superheroes call them lairs; police officers call them crime scenes.

• Blend in. In colonial Massachusetts a Quaker living alone with cats had a front-row ticket to a witch trial. In twenty-first-century America, a solitary lifestyle is still a sign of deviance. I’m about seventeen, so I go to high school. Lots of high schools. You wouldn’t believe how easy it is to forge credentials, and all the teachers love a good student.

• Vary your targets. I know, the victims are supposed to be the telltale heart of serial killing. The fatal flaw: Every killer likes their type. Bad idea. I’ve eaten bigjocks and old ladies. I’ve raided funeral parlors (not recommended: formaldehyde is to corpses what the Kraft factory is to Vermont cheddar). I’ve even put an ad online!
    And finally:

• Use your brains! Or someone else will eat them for you.

    7. You Know My Name (Look Up the Number)
    The girl stares at you. You stare at her. The hunger feels like knives delicately inserted into your stomach and pushed through your spine.
    And then she shrugs, takes a step forward, and kisses you. Perfect opportunity. A kiss is like a non-prion version of eating someone. But you just clench your fists and return it. Why not? The braces aren’t so bad. You imagine she’s Jack. That’s better.
    “Grayson,” says Jack. “Step away from her.”
    The girl breaks it off first, looks over your shoulder, screams. You turn around, a sudden warmth dulling the sharp edges of your hunger. Jack stands in front of the thick row of trees on the side of the gravel road. He has a gun. Despite the prion problem, you haven’t had much interaction with guns in your life. This one looks big and black and shiny. Jack looks like he knows how to use it.
    “Funny, I didn’t peg you for the jealous type, Jack.”
    He grimaces, but the blush staining his neck and ears probably isn’t caused by anger.
    “What the hell are you doing? Are you robbing us?”The girl’s voice is so high she’s nearly squeaking. She’s reaching out, like she might hold you for support. But you look at Jack, his steady hand and his big black pistol, and think that might not be the best idea.
    “I’m saving your life,” he says.
    For a moment you can’t hear a thing—not your frantic pulse, not your labored breath, not even Jack as he says something to the girl and gestures with his gun.
    You wish he would just shoot already. You wish he would just fucking kill you.
    But the girl, trembling now, shuts the hood and opens the driver’s side of your car.
    “The keys are in the ignition,” Jack says. “Drive home.”
    “But the engine …”
    “Go.”
    She shuts the door. The car starts without a problem. She backs down the gravel drive, slowly at first, then so fast she nearly careens into a tree.
    You and Jack are alone. He still holds the gun.
    “Grayson … it’s true? What they said about you. What you—”
    “Yeah, of course it is. Why the fuck else would I be out here?” You close your eyes. “Hurry up, will you?”
    “What are you doing?”
    “Waiting.”
    “I’m putting the gun down.”
    “So you can stick me with your samurai sword?”
    “I’m not going to kill