Before I can ask, the waitress comes over with two plastic baskets lined with wax paper. Inside each one, the chef has nestled a hot dog - mine is the one with diced onion - and a generous handful of French fries. My stomach growls in protest, and I eye the food with a watering mouth, but Anais nudges me in the ribs, and without thinking, I hand her the salt shaker, removing the metal top in the same motion. The waitress turns back to look at us, and Anais throws the contents of the salt shaker in her face. 

Immediately, the waitress is no longer human. She looks almost like...

"A pillar of salt?" I breathe, horrified and now sick to my stomach. What have I just seen? Who the hell is Anais, and what is she capable of? 

"Maris, get out of here, now," Anais orders, her voice very firm. She won't be taking no for an answer. 

Too bad.

"No!" I cry, shooting out of the booth. "Not until you tell me what the hell is going on here!"

The cook peers over his shoulder from the kitchen. In that moment that his left eye is trained over his shoulder at us, I can see that it's turned the color of sulfur. Or maybe it's been that color the whole time, and I just haven't noticed. Whatever the case, it makes my stomach lurch. Anais' hand goes down to her belt, and I furrow my brow, confused. Her hand closes around what should be air, but as she makes a drawing motion, a beautiful jeweled shortsword appears out of nowhere. 

"Maris, leave, now."

I stumble back, but otherwise I stand my ground. "Tell me what's happening!"

The answer comes a second later. The cook vaults through the little window separating the kitchen and the front area behind the counter, much more agile than his size would suggest. His hands are enormous, his fingers long and shaped like bony claws. He snarls at us, showing two rows of blade-like teeth. I'm rooted to the spot, my heart pounding in fear. Anais, however, is at the ready, lithe as a cat, prepared for the attack. The cook leaps from the counter towards me and I shriek, throwing my arms up and curling in on myself. A sharp yelp echoes through the diner, and the next thing I know, the creature has turned its attention to Anais. Her blade is slick with oily red-black blood. 

Everything happens in a blur, and my brain's gone fuzzy with fear. The cook-creature lunges at Anais. Her silver blade flashes through the air. The creature dodges, and attacks again. He's bulky, but agile. Anais slices at him, her body fluid and unafraid. The creature lets out a squealing cry, and more of that strange blood pours onto the linoleum floor of the diner. I shiver, teeth chattering as the blood spreads across the tiles, creeping towards me as if it wants to join the fight. I scramble backwards, trying to get away, and the next thing I know, there's a terrible shriek and a heavy thud and the monster is dead and Anais is hurrying over to me, catching my chin in her hand.

"Are you hurt?" she demands, her brown eye studying me quickly. 

I feel dizzy, and I sway a little where I stand. She throws an arm around me, holding me upright. 

"Come on, sit down," she says, dragging me over to one of the stools at the counter. She pushes me back until I'm sitting on it, and she pries open my eyes to look at my pupils, and she presses her fingers to my neck, and after a moment, she takes a deep breath and closes her eyes, pressing her palm against my right temple. After a few moments, I feel a little more relaxed - the dizziness is gone, I can breathe again, and all I want to do is sleep.

"Let's get you home," she says, and I'm too boneless to object. She loops an arm around me and pulls me towards the door. My feet feel heavy, but after a few steps, I manage to find my strength again and stumble out the door and back onto the sidewalk, where the night seems cooler than it had when I first left my room. My mind replays the image of the cook turning into that monstrous thing and jumping over the counter, its teeth slick and shining in my face, and that's all I can see until I feel Anais fishing my key out of my pocket. I blink a few times, and then she's unlocking the door to my house. Normally the door squeaks when it's opened, but when she does it, it's silent. I don't bother asking. I head to my room, kick off my sneakers, and flop into my bed. I close my eyes for a few seconds, and when I open them, Anais is nowhere to be seen. Figuring she must not have followed me into the house, I throw back the blankets on my bed and crawl underneath them. Just as I close my eyes to try to fall asleep, my stomach growls. Of course. 

I sigh and stuff my hands in the pocket of my hoodie, hoping to ignore it, but...

There's something inside my pocket. 

I pull it out and look at it, hitting the flashlight on my phone. I peel back the foil it's wrapped in.

It's a hot dog. 

For the briefest of moments, my confused and exhausted brain wonders how it got into my pocket. I decide I don't care. I'm starving. I tear the foil back further and take a big, satisfying bite. With a contented sigh, I chew it, tasting the salt of the meat and the softness of the bread. I lay back and close my eyes, glad that this all worked out.

And then I can't breathe. 

My chest has stopped working, and I can't feel my fingers. My vision begins to swim, and my arms flail out, trying to grab onto something. I send my lamp crashing to the floor. This is it. I'm going to choke to death on a goddamn hot dog. 

"Oh for fuck's sake..." I hear Anais' voice, and it sounds like she's speaking to me underwater. I feel a pinch in my neck and everything goes dark.

It is hot in my room. Stifling. I've opened my window, stripped down to a sports bra, a pair of stolen underwear, and a thin sweatshirt, but nothing helps.  My head throbs, my chest aches. I'm burning alive. 

I climb out of bed, pulling on a pair of shorts and slipping my feet into my well-worn sneakers, not bothering to put on socks first. Slipping my house key into my pocket, I open the front door as quietly as possible and step outside. With any luck, my parents are long passed into sleep, and won't hear even the slight noise that my shutting the door makes. 

I take a deep breath of thick summer air. Even with the sun down, there is so much heat that it clings to my bare skin like a pelt. I consider shedding my hoodie, but decide against it. The breeze off the ocean is enough to cool the sweat on my body, and I'm afraid if I remove any more clothes, I'll catch cold. An odd thought, I decide, but I've never been one to tempt fate. 

I walk down the now-empty street, hearing the waves crash against the shore just a block down. It's August, but the tourist season has begun to wither, and even now, at two in the morning, hardly anyone would be out anyway, except for the occasional intrepid amateur pyrotechnic. I walk down the boardwalk through the marsh, smelling the heady, familiar odor of low tide. If it were daytime, there would be people out in the marsh with buckets and trowels, trying their hand at digging out clams while the tide was out. Now, I am by myself. My sneakers echo on the old wooden slats of the boardwalk, and an egret rustles in the rushes, affronted by my intrusion. 

I head up the street, to where just a couple of hours earlier, the pier would have been alive with music and drinking and sharing a summer's evening with friends. Now, all is quiet. The animated sign from the hot dog shop lights up the road; I always forget, even though I've lived in this town all my life, that that place is open 24/7. I stuff my hand into my pocket, half-hoping to find a few bills wadded in there. No such luck. It's just as well. 

I cross the street, looking both ways out of habit before heading across the little beach lot that's open to the public. There isn't a lot of public parking along this stretch; most of it is reserved for the timeshares. I climb the little staircase to the top of the dune, and consider removing my sneakers to feel the sand between my toes. There are few feelings that are as centering as that, as having the ground mold to your feet. I decide against it - the crabs are out this time of year, and I'd rather not step on anyone. 

The sound of the waves is louder now that I'm right on the water, and I walk along the beach, passing under the tall, sea-worn pillars that support the pier. My family took our Christmas photos here once, my parents, my brothers, and me. We had all worn white shirts and jeans. The contrast was gorgeous, even if it was a bit white bread. I walk along the beach until my knees feel loose and I can breathe again, and my hair feels thick with the salt on the wind. Luckily, I have no run-ins with any wildlife, and I turn and head back the way I came. 

As I pass under the pier again, I catch sight of something stuck under a rock. Bending down, I tentatively lift the stone, half-afraid there will be something underneath that will bite me for my efforts. But no, it's just a rock, and under it is just a twenty-dollar bill. It's dry, and I knit my eyebrows as I pick it up. Why would it be dry? It must have been put there very recently, otherwise the waves would have gotten it. I choose not to think too much about it. My stomach rumbles. Of course. Now that I've got cash, my stomach decides that it's no longer going to be boredom eating. 

I make my way back over the sand, pausing before I reach the staircase to bend down and shove my hand into the loose sand at the top of the dune. It's an old habit of mine, instilled in me by my mother when I was little. She always told my brothers and me that before you left the beach, you had to say goodbye, and the best way to say goodbye was to hold its hand, because it couldn't hear you over the waves. I straighten up, brushing my hand on my shorts, and head back across the street to Harry's Hot Dogs, where the sign is currently flashing a promotion for their Senior Saturdays. I climb the steps and push open the door, making the bells tied to the inside handle jingle. The line cook glances over his shoulder, but turns back to his work as soon as he sees it's only me. 

"No shirt, no service," a voice grunts from behind the register. I lean forward to see who spoke. It's a youngish-looking woman - older than me by a few years but probably not older than twenty or twenty-one. Her blonde hair is tangled in a bun at the back of her head, and she scrolls through her phone. I would doubt she had even seen me, except she's right - I'm not exactly wearing a shirt. I purse my lips, defiant, and zip up my hoodie almost to my neck. 

"How's that?" I ask.

She doesn't look up. "Sit anywhere you like. Be right with you."

I slide into the booth in the corner. It's too much space for only me, but it's comfortable and private, and that's exactly what I need right now. There are menus tucked into the napkin holder, and I pull one out, scanning it without too much interest. I'm hungry, yes, but I don't really care what I get. I cover my mouth to stifle a yawn, and I'm hungry, yes, but I'm also tired. It's got to be nearly quarter to three by now. 

The surly waitress comes over, and I place my order, and a few minutes later - definitely longer than it should have taken, and I probably deserve that - she brings over the lemonade I ordered. I tear off the straw wrapper and take a long sip, sighing. Yet another one of those little joys. 

"You're out late."

I turn to see who's spoken to me, and there's a woman seated with her back to me a few booths down. I can tell it's a woman by the thick tangle of black hair that's pulled over one slim shoulder. Her neck is a creamy brown color, and the cut of whatever she's wearing exposes part of her shoulder. I can see the top of some kind of tattoo - a dragon or something, maybe - peeking above her shirt on her left shoulder blade. She clears her throat, and I realize I've been staring.

"Oh, uh... yeah. Can't sleep. It's too hot and my dad refuses to turn the A/C past 75 this time of year," I reply, and I instantly wonder if I've said too much. 

The woman chuckles, and it sounds almost like the noise I once heard a tiger make when I went to the zoo. "Not suited for the beach climate, then, huh?"

I tuck my hair behind my ear, suddenly self-conscious. "I'm sorry, I don't mean to be rude but - do I know you from somewhere?" I ask, feeling my cheeks flush. I'm not usually this forward. If this even counts as being forward. 

The woman turns, and I'm just the slightest bit startled. Her face is pretty, beautiful even. But her right eye is the color of milk, and a long, thin scar stretches in a surprisingly straight line from her forehead through her eyebrow down to her high cheekbone. I bite my lip, dropping my gaze, but she chuckles again, that same rumbling purr. 

"Sorry. I tend to have that effect on people," she says, and I'm sure she doesn't mean the uneasy feeling that's stirring in my stomach. "I'm Anais."

I try to smile, still trying not to stare at her eye. "It's nice to meet you."

"Do you mind if I come sit with you? Doesn't make much sense to take up two tables when one will do."

I shrug, moving over a little and sitting on my hands. Anais stands, and I see that she's wearing a black ballet-neck shirt, and a thick black leather belt rests at her waist above her dark wash jeans. She looks young, despite the scar. She's probably in her late twenties or early thirties if I had to guess. She sits next to me, but thankfully, not too close. There's enough room between us that I don't feel quite so much like prey. 

"Are you from around here?" I ask, awkward questions being favorable in my mind to awkward silence. 

Anais smiles, bending the scar. "Not really. But I'm not really from anywhere, I guess. This is just as good a place as any. You, though... you've lived here your whole life. It's a bit obvious." 

I blush despite myself. "Is it that bad?"

She laughs, and this sound is brighter, with real amusement in it. "I never said it was bad, just obvious." Her hand strays down to her waist, and for a moment, I wonder if maybe she gave herself a cramp from laughing. Her laughter fades, but her smile doesn't. "You're a beach child, Maris Woodward, that much is clear." 

My heart skips a beat, and I shiver, flinching away from her. 

"Don't ask. Not right now," she says, dropping her voice to a near-whisper before I can even form the cliched old words. "Listen to me. I need to you do something for me. When I give you the signal, take off the top of the salt shaker and hand it to me. Don't say anything, don't do anything except for that. Can you do that?" 

I nod, too confused and frightened to do anything else. What was it they said about being complacent when someone tries to rob you? I can't remember. I don't even know if this applies. 

"And whatever you do, don't eat the hot dog."