She spent the night in a Walmart parking lot, doors locked, knife on the dash. At 3:17 a.m. every car alarm in the lot went off at once. Between the whoops she heard faint singing, the same off-key birthday tune, coming from under her car. She looked in the side mirror. Five small handprints glowed on the rear bumper, fresh, as if kids had just pressed them there. The prints slid downward, leaving streaks, then vanished. The knife on the dash now had a bright red ribbon tied around the handle in a perfect bow. A gift tag dangled: “For the cake cutting.” The ribbon tightened by itself until the blade snapped in half.