CHAPTER 8
Kennedy rehearsed every lesson from her self-defense class in fast motion, promised herself never to roll her eyes at her dad for all his unsolicited safety advice. Legs in a crouch, back hip at a slight angle. Hands up, ready to block, ready for a blow. Should she go for a throat strike with the fingers or palm strike to the chin? Her ears pounded as her heart plunged blood and oxygen and adrenaline to every muscle cell in her body.
Kennedy stood as still as the fetal pig corpse she had dissected in high school. She prayed for protection, not in actual words but in that unspoken language of desperation, hopes shot heavenward with the full expectation God could understand and decipher her soul’s chaotic pleading. She strained to pick up the slightest noise around her. Nothing.
