She stands barefoot just outside the front door, though night has long closed in around the town. Sans ashtray, she taps excess cigarette ashes into the hardy bush beside her, makes sure they don’t flare.

She told her boyfriend that she gave the cigarettes up, but he’s at college 300 kilometres away, and not exactly in a position to check up on her every night. Sometimes her next door neighbour comes out for his last smoke of the day at the same time, and she tries to avoid his dull small talk by providing monosyllabic words punctuated by throaty grunts, lessons learnt from a temperamental brother, aged 4.

After the neighbour has stubbed out early and retreated inside, she lights another smoke and draws deeply on it, exhaling as the cool breeze bites her ankles and legs a little harder than before. The cigarette burns away in her hand while her mind is tangled in thought.

She stirs, and flicks the butt to the concrete. Her last weapon is gone.

My planning has come to fruition.
I walk toward my prey.