Quinn Riley wasn’t squeamish. She’d hunted squirrels, raccoons, pheasants, and deer. Gran and Gramps had made sure she knew how to gut and skin an animal and cook it for food. She’d survived the Crossway massacre by spreading the still-warm entrails and blood of another human being over herself and Milo. She wasn’t squeamish, not by a long shot. Rats, though. They were a different story. Ever since she was six and a big black rat had scuttled across her pillow in her mother’s junky trailer, she’d hated—
