I needed Jenna to drive me home—and that thought scared me even more than the idea of a rampage. I knew I’d never make it. It would be close to an hour, if there was still any traffic. I’d devour my friend before we hit the Idaho border. I ducked down a hallway to my right, looking for the first sympathetic person I could find. Bingo! A woman wearing an apron, in her mid-forties emerged from the bathroom, headed away from me toward a swinging door at the end of the hall. A motherly type. Perfect. “Excuse me? Could you help me please?” I called, holding onto the wall, as if for support. “I feel sick.” The woman turned, startled, then frowned. I could feel her concern. “Are you alright? What’s wrong?” she asked as she approached me. I felt guilty for what I was about to do, but it couldn’t be helped. If I didn’t do what must be done, things would only get worse. And not just for me. The outcome for both of us would be far graver than just a little blood loss. “I’m a diabetic, and I think I indulged in the refreshments a little too much.
