Jan screamed. Napoleon had perched on the Sting Ray's roof, and was butting the rear window with the top of his head. The T was a tempest; she couldn't see much from the car’s tiny storage area—just his feet, and the tip of his snout when he struck—but she could see his color clearly.
It was blood-red.
She curled into a ball in the farthest corner of the storage area. Her heart raced. She switched on the shock prod, awaiting the inevitable.
KRACK! KRACK!
She gritted her teeth.
You did something to him, didn’t you, Ben? Rather than admit he was cognitive, you used a shock prod and a wig to make him crazy as you are.
She nudged yet closer to the trunk's walls—her right hand brushing a taillight's inner casing. It wouldn't be long now ...
There was a ringing sound, and she paused. She
