The club, Havoc, is packed. Bodies pulse against one another and, as I pass them by, I am forgotten. It’s a feeling like no other—to be present and invisible at once. I don’t appreciate that the people are so close, that they are everywhere. But they don’t see me so it’s okay.

It doesn’t take long for me to lose myself in the music. I dance alone, and in my head it feels like I’m normal, like all these people are my friends and they give me space, but they care about me, too. My head falls back, and I raise my arms into the air. Music injects my veins and rushes through my body. It takes me away, far away.

Until.

Until someone grows nearer than the others. An arm wraps around my waist and hips brush my rear.

“Back up,” I yell, because there’s no way he’d hear me otherwise.

He doesn’t back up.

I spin around and the guy—tall, broad-shouldered, eyes that remind me of a Sunday school boy but I know better— pulls me tighter. He leans his head down to my ear and tells me I look sexy. Do I want to dance?

We’re already dancing, and the answer is no. It’s always no.

“Let go of me,” I holler. “I won’t say it again.”

The guy grins so that I can see every tooth in his mouth. His cheeks are bright red, and his brow is covered in sweat. He isn’t unattractive, but I can smell what’s beneath his sweet cologne. He is ugly on the inside. And his hands are on me.

He spins me around and my stomach clenches.

I’m being pulled backward toward a corner and oh my God no one is seeing what he’s doing. Or they see and don’t mind. My heart beats so hard it aches, and my breathing comes fast. But I don’t care about that. I care about what will happen if he keeps manhandling me.

I fear what I will do.

The guy pushes me against a wall so that my belly touches sheetrock painted black. His hands roam over my body, exploring the curveless shape of my torso. If he only knew. If he only knew he had an explosive in his grasp.

He runs a finger over my lips.

He pulls the clip off the grenade.

He pushes his mouth against the back of my neck.

He relishes the danger of the bomb in his hand.

His palm slides down the flat of my stomach.

Seconds left until detonation. Take cover!

Inside my head, I scream. Outside my head, I scream. I thrash against him but he uses my weakness to his advantage. I am shy of five feet tall, and I am built of bones.

He is built of steak dinners and whole milk.

His hands move lower and lower, and deep inside the recesses of my brain, something sinister yawns awake. No, no, no! Nothing to see here! Go back to sleep!

It’s no use.

Wilson is here.