The next victim does not yet know. But she becomes another unknown casualty in a nonconformist war.
She may take a cabin from a designated zone thinking it is safe to travel home with others, walk down a residential road, go to school in COVID time, turn up for a long-awaited job interview, visit a popular mall, stop in love, hesitate and receive a lift from a smiling colleague, his coach, an older relative, a familiar face, a figure in a trusted uniform, her father’s confidante.
She will stay at home, or travel to meet a disengaged or current spouse, religious leader or even union leader, prowling psychopath, private car driver, pharmacist, photographer or prospective landlord. She will stop by the side of the public road when her car is struck from behind and come out to check the damage. She will grind and leap through a window naked, crawling on the ground trying in vain to find a place to hide. She screams from the top of a lonely cliff, and unhearsed in a forest, a locked vehicle, a small seaside hotel, a grand hotel, isolated shackles, a buggy brothel, a stinking beer garden, a thin toilet, wooden tables dressed in a very crowded part of the city or a grand mansion with soundproof rooms in a posh, gated, protected neighborhood.