“Dude. Post-apocalyptic world. Who does job applications anymore?” “I do.” I squint at it, then him. “What are you paying me?” I angle. “Dude. Post-apocalyptic world. Who does money anymore.” I snicker. First sign of any sense of humor he’s shown. Then I remember where I am and why. I wad it up and throw it at him. It bounces off his chest.”

Karen Marie Moning

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“Kid, when will you learn.”“You’d be amazed the things I know.”“You might be able thrash your way out of a spider-web, but thrashing in quicksand doesn’t work. The harder you fight, the more ground you lose. Struggling merely expedites your inevitable defeat.”“Never been defeated. Never will be.”“Rowena was a spider web.” He touches my cheek with the hand holding the knife. The silver glints an inch from my eye. “Do you know what I am.”“A great big pain in my ass.”“Quicksand. And you’re dancing on it.”“Dude, what’s with the knife?”“I’m not interested in ink anymore. You’re going to sign my contract in blood.”“Thought you said it was an application,” I say pissily.“It is, Dani. To a very exclusive club. What’s Mine.”“Ain’t nobody’s. ““Sign.”“You can’t—““Or Jo dies. Slowly and painfully.”“Dude, why you still talking? Unchain me and give me the fecking contract already.”


“You think you’re going to chain me to a wall then stand here and tell me why it’s okay that I am the way I am? That because of all the crap folks put me through when I was young it’s all right that I turned out like this? Dude, I don’t have a problem with how I turned out. I like me.”


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