32

You check your iPhone. It's broken. You take out the SIM card and destroy it, then destroy the spares you carry. You wear a watch because sunrise is never far from your mind, and—yes, that's broken, too. Then you check your satchel, but the USBs are all there, all safe.

And then the Hunger hits you like a punch in the stomach. You've burned too much vitae fueling your powers, and now only scraps of Blood remain in your veins. But there's nothing you can do.

You check yourself again in the cracked glass of the empty display case. There's blood on your hands and face and clumps of gore in your hair, and your shirt and jeans are in tatters. You try the sink in the bathroom, but the water has been shut off for years. After a few minutes, you find some cleaning supplies. Being dead, you don't worry too much as you scrape blood off your face with a sponge. After a few minutes you look like an escaped mental patient, but not like a Romero zombie—no one in their right mind would pick you up as a hitchhiker, but you might be able to reach town.

You head back to where you left your car, but it's gone.

Instinctively you check the satchel one more time, but everything is there. Everything that just happened was a distraction—someone else's problem. You can reach the outskirts of Tucson before dawn, as always staying one step ahead of your clan's curse, and from there make your way to the new Prince's court. Just deliver these USBs, and you'll make enough money for a new car. You'll be able to keep doing this.

Night after night.

You start walking.

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