“Sara?” Jeremy whispered, wonderingly.

“Salt, salt, where the hell is your salt?” Sara whimpered. She was moving through the kitchen cabinets, pulling out canister after canister, dumping the containers of beans, rice, and pasta onto the floor.

“Sara, what the hell are you doing? You can’t steal food, if you’re hungry, you should have—”

“I don’t need food, I need SALT !” Sara screamed, slamming her fists against the wall. Her voice was incredibly loud in the empty kitchen.

“We’re out of salt, I’m expecting a shipment in the morning. We have some of this, though,” Jeremy said, picking up a container of Lawry’s Seasoning.

“No, no, no!” Sara screamed. She was shivering now, with terror, not cold. “It can’t be that kind of salt. . . rock salt, sea salt, something pure, not that stuff. . . oh damn, I have to. . .”

“NO!” Jeremy shouted. It was too late. In the blink of an eye, the girl had grabbed the biggest chef’s knife in the kitchen and slashed open her left arm, spattering blood on the clean tile floor.