Betty arrives at work slippery with sweat. She has no option but to run to her grind at Propag8 now that the taxi drivers are trying to kill her. She bought an electric car, but they keep trying to booby-trap it. Every time she puts her thumb on the ignition switch, she closes her eyes and waits for the explosion. Every time the car starts without blowing up, she knows it's just a matter of time. That she has bought one more day. That they are watching her, waiting for the perfect time to detonate her life.

Betty can't handle the daily anxiety, the red-wire-or-black-wire stomach cramps she gets, waiting to be blown to high heaven. Not that she believes in heaven. Not that she believes anything, except the voices in her head.