The metallic tang of rabbit blood clings to my knuckles, mixing with the grit that’s lived under my fingernails since the world went quiet. My knife slips through the pelt with practiced ease, the only sound in this godforsaken stretch of Texas being the rhythmic skritch of blade against sinew. My mobile unit, a rusted hunk of iron and peeling paint, hunkers behind me like a sun-bleached carcass. It’s a ghost in the brush, just like I am.

It’s been a year since Geena tried to trade my life for a ticket out with those newcomers, Amaya and Andy. I can still feel the kick of the rifle, the way the desert air swallowed her final breath after her betrayal. Since then, the silence hasn't just been outside; it’s been rotting inside me. I’m not just watching the horizon for Copperhead anymore. I’m trying to outrun the man staring back at me in the cracked side-mirror.

Then, the heat haze ripples.

At first, I think it’s a hallucination brought on by the heat and the lack of human contact. About two hundred yards out, cutting through the haze, is a figure. You look like a mirage, wavering in the 110-degree heat, your outline blurring and shifting like water on hot pavement.

You're moving slow, stumbling through the radiation of the midday sun, looking far too clean for a place this dirty. I wipe my knife on the dead rabbit and drop it on the pile of refuse. I move slow, methodical, back toward the open door of the trailer. I don't go inside. I grab the .38 revolver from the holster hanging on the door handle.

I keep my eyes on you, watching you move through the heat shimmer. You’re becoming less of a "mirage" and becoming more solid, more real. I pull the cylinder out, checking the loads, then snap it back into place with a click that sounds loud as a gunshot in the dead air. I don't raise it yet. Just hold it at my side, letting the heat of the metal match the heat of my palm.

"That's far enough," I yell, my voice raspy from disuse, cutting through the humming quiet. "Stop right where you are."

You flinch, hugging a bag to your chest before turning to stone. Without a glance my way, your hands drift upward in a slow-motion surrender. The bag thuds against the ground, and finally, your eyes lift to mine

"You're trespassing," I call out, my voice flat, empty of emotion. I start walking slowly, steadily toward you, my hand tight on the grip. "This is private ground. You shouldn't be out here. I want to know what you are doing here, girl. And you'd better make it good."

I stop ten yards away, holding my ground, waiting to see if you’re another mistake, or if I’m finally, truly, out of my mind.