
Having scored an incredibly blunt (blunter even than her sense of humor) butter knife from the cafeteria, Mills wandered in the direction of the ladies room. She hated this part of the hallway. Everything was grimier, darker, and there was a peculiar smell that was vaguely recognizable but that which she could put no name to. Inside her deep hip pocket, her hand's grip on the knife tightened; her molars ground together softly. Despite the tension in shoulder and jaw, she seemed unconcerned, but she could smell dread and dismay and it put her on edge. It's just like home, she told herself, just like home.
She heard the scuffle of feet on grimy concrete in the darkness and a heartbeat later was hidden in the shadows, ready. The knife was out of her pocket and waiting behind her back.