She picked me up on the side of the highway.

At home in South America, she would have known not to.

Her boyfriend sneers at her generosity, hair smeared with gel that reeks of tortured animals.

The fading bruises on her wrist, the hollow stare. He beats her to prove he is a man.

She asks me where I’m headed. I name an abandoned hotel far from here and promise there is money in my wallet.

He turns up his music, filled with violence, calling her a whore when she asks him to adjust the volume. A plea for help is carved into her bones.

He wants a snack and demands she pull over at the next gas station to buy him sweets. Hands clutch the steering wheel.

She parks. I have but moments to act.

The beast rises within me. He has no chance to scream before I rip out his throat in a spray of blood. His lungs still struggle to work, but I devour him in moments.

She comes back out, seeing the money I have left on the seat, crumpled and bloody. Relief overwhelms her as I walk away, a man again, to another highway.