Don’t think about it. Do it.

It was a long time before she dared move. Her leg cramped, and she gritted her teeth as she slipped her foot from under the curled, twitching fingers. The boy lay on the carpet like a dead man, money all over the floor around him. She stepped lightly to the door and tried the knob.

Locked.

The situation was becoming clear: she would go after that key or be finding another place to hide in here for a very long time. And it was time that was not working for her now; if she couldn’t get out of here the liquor would wear off and this creep would not likely be in a charitable mood when he came around.

The right pocket.

He had put the key in his right pants pocket.

Don’t think about it. Do it.

She crept closer, studying the limp, dirty face pressed against the floor. His fingers twitched against his body. She crouched at his side.

The right pocket.

She slipped her fingers under his hip and eased it into the pocket of his grimy jeans.

God. She couldn’t reach deep enough without turning him.

So, turn him.

Oh, God.

Roll him over. He’s too drunk to notice.

But she needed the comfort of a weapon first. Something heavy and hard. On a pedestal by the window she found a stone figurine of a woman draped in a robe, one breast and arm exposed, a snake coiled up her right arm, poised to strike. She reached for it, but knocked it from its stand with a crash and stumbled back as the quivering hulk at her feet stirred.