SAVANNAH TAYLOR

“It’s not Tim,” I whispered once I was sure Sir was really gone. It also wasn’t Mr. Fryer or Mr. Tae Kwan Do. I had been so anxious that the bottom of my feet and the backs of my knees were still sweating.

“If you know that, then you must have opened your eyes!” Jenny hissed. “What if he’d caught you? He was looking awfully suspicious.” Her ruined mouth twisted. “And like he was making some kind of plan.”

“I just peeped at him through my lashes. And you must have looked at him too,” I countered.

“Normally all his attention is focused on me.” Jenny crawled backward to the end of the bed and then got to her feet. “I could only risk it because he was looking at you.”

“See, that’s what I’ve been trying to tell you. The two of us can do things that one person could never manage by herself.” I was still thinking about Sir. “I don’t recognize him, but my mom’s boyfriend has made us come with him to wrecking yards a couple of times while he looks for parts for his classic car. We must be at one of them. But I never really looked at the workers there.”

“He told me that he saw me outside Island Tan and knew that I was meant for him,” Jenny said. “Although I think he’s changed his mind about that.” She shivered. “I was so afraid he’d notice the screws were gone. Or even decide to check the trash.” As I had scrambled under the covers, she had swept the screws and improvised tools into the bathroom garbage can.

How were we going to escape? We couldn’t get out through the vent. The windows were made of something that refused to break. And the door had a chain padlocked across it.

Except whenever he came inside, he had to unlock it. “Next time he comes back, we’re going to have to hurt him,” I said with more courage than I felt. Sir’s words, his tone of voice, and the brief glimpse I’d had of him had helped me understand why Jenny was so afraid of him. “We just need to disable him long enough for us to get away.”

Jenny was already shaking her head. “If we try anything, he’ll just hurt us.”

“Not if we gang up on him the second he starts to come inside.”

Ignoring how my head and body ached, I started to search the RV again, but now I was looking for a weapon. The table and bench were built in the wall. The two swivel chairs were bolted down, as was the couch. No freestanding lamps, just lights in the ceiling. I could try swinging the boom box at his head, but it was made of plastic, and the cord of the attached mic looked too short to try to wrap around his neck.

When I pressed the tines of a spork from the junk drawer against my skin, they barely made a dent. The end of the potato peeler had been dulled by our assault on the vent.

Could I combine things to make a weapon? Maybe I could embed the lid of a can in a wooden broom handle. As I imagined the sharp metal edge slicing his face, I felt both horrified and exhilarated. “Do you have a broom or a mop or anything like that?”

“No. Just one of those hand vacuums. It’s under the sink.” Not following my thoughts, Jenny added, “I try, but it’s hard to keep this place clean.”

Clean gave me another idea. “Do you have any spray cleaner?”

“Dish soap?” she offered.

So much for blinding him with chemicals. What would Bruce Lee do? He was famous for his skill with nunchucks, two pieces of wood connected by a short chain. In movies, he could fight off a whole room full of people, swinging one end through the air to hit his attackers in the head or crotch. I didn’t have any wooden sticks or a chain, but … I checked the cupboard again. “Do you have a pair of tights?”

“Yeah.” Without asking why, Jenny went into the bedroom and returned with a pair of black fishnet stockings. The sight of them made me shiver as I thought of Sir buying them for her. Clenching the waistband with my teeth, with my good hand, I slipped the can of SpaghettiOs inside one leg and then shook it until it fell all the way to the toe. Grabbing the top of the leg, I raised my hand, the dangling can swinging back and forth. “Step back,” I told Jenny. Then I spun the improvised nunchuck around my head and snapped it down. The can thumped so hard on the couch cushion that it left a dent.

Jenny and I exchanged a grin. “Next time he comes in the door, I’ll hit him in the head with that. If he doesn’t get knocked out right away, I’ll keep hitting. You grab the Taser. When we leave, we’ll padlock the door behind us so he can’t follow.”

The smile fell from her face. “But what will we do about Rex?”

“We can use the Taser on him like Sir did when you were getting bitten.”

“But what if you miss when you swing the can? Or it doesn’t hurt Sir enough?” She was trembling. “You don’t want to make him mad.”

I made a sound like a laugh. “I think it’s too late for that.”

“But you know kung fu.” Her voice shook. “I don’t know anything.”

“That’s something we can fix,” I said.

“What is” is more important than “what should be.”

—BRUCE LEE

SAVANNAH TAYLOR

“The basics of self-defense are actually pretty easy.” I tried to project confidence. I thought I knew them well enough to teach them—but could Jenny learn? If I had learned anything about martial arts, it was that more than half of it was attitude. If you believed you couldn’t do something, then you couldn’t. But the reverse was also true.

Jenny squared her shoulders. “Then show me.”

I let go of the makeshift nunchuck. The can thumped on the couch. “The first step is to protect your head. Always keep your hands up in front of your face.” I demonstrated, but only with my good arm, which felt really strange.

Jenny raised her hands, which she had curled into fists. But her thumb was tucked inside her fingers.

I shook my head. “Don’t even worry about making fists,” I said. “If you make one with your thumb inside like that, and then hit him, you might break it. Just keep your hands open and up. If he tries to grab or punch you, raise your arm just enough to block it with the side of your wrist.” I raised my right hand, parrying an imaginary blow while still keeping my forearm at a right angle. “Now try to hit me on the right side of my head.”

Jenny pulled her hand back for a slap. I raised my forearm a few inches and blocked it. Our wrists clashed.

“Ouch!” She rubbed her wrist. “That hurts.”

“My sifu has this saying—” I started, but Jenny interrupted.

“Sifu?”

“Sifu means ‘teacher.’ My sifu says you should put hard bones in soft places. Now you try. Put your hands up and block me.” She did and easily blocked my slap, then a right roundhouse I threw.

Although I knew her wrist must still be hurting from the clash of our bones, now she wasn’t even wincing. I’d been expecting her to have the slightly stunned look most women did when they realized that martial arts was going to involve physical contact and even some actual pain. But Jenny, with her scars, her knowledge of teeth and Tasers, was more familiar with pain than I was.