Cameras—ranging from cell phones to full-on Canons with huge lenses—rose in unison and aimed at her. Lana’s hair was sticking out in multiple directions, she was wearing a ragged purple T-shirt that read “FCKH8” over boys’ boxer shorts, and she was sucking a cigarette butt down to the ash. And then there was the automatic pistol in her right hand. Lana went back inside and said, “Okay: now where are my cigarettes?”
