Out of everything, it was the mask she was given that really threw Jinks for a loop. She worried that it may not fit over her shoulder-length black hair, which was straight but had an odd tendency to curl upward at the ends—making her hair almost constantly appear to be floating—and then she worried about breathing in it. There were two small nostril holes, but the plastic front of the mask had no mouth hole.

Fifteen minutes passed before the first identifications were made; the first was a girl named Amber, #2-3-2-7, and the second was a man named Tim, #2-7-3-6. A few more were made in rapid succession, but Jinks wasn’t worried; there were a *lot* of people participating this year. It was almost intimidating, really, seeing so many people in the same clothes and masks. They almost looked like a cult of some sort.

Overwhelmed by her own panic, [Jinks] fled for the washrooms. It was dark, and she didn’t know which washroom she’d entered until she saw the urinals. She was about to turn and head back out, but then she froze. Slowly, she turned her head. From under one of the stalls, she saw legs. And blood. *Lots* of blood.