Intensity

your legs dangle. Okay, now just drop to the floor inside, and then go forward. Okay? Do you understand? Go forward toward the cockpit, honey, so I won't fall on you when I come through."
        Chyna gave the girl a gentle push, which was all she required. Ariel dropped into the motor home, landed on her feet, stumbled on the hammer that Chyna had discarded earlier, and put one hand against the wall to steady herself.
        "Go forward," Chyna urged.
        Behind her, a second-story window shattered onto the porch roof. One of the two study windows. The door to Vess's office had not been closed, and the dogs had gotten into it from the upstairs hall after the bedroom door had frustrated them.
        She turned and saw a Doberman coming straight at her across the roof, leaping toward her with such velocity that, when it hit her, it would carry her off the top of the motor home and into the yard.
        She twisted aside, but the dog was a lot quicker than she was, correcting its trajectory even as it bounded onto the vehicle. When it landed, however, it slipped on the dewy surface, skidded, claws screeching on the metal, and to Chyna's astonishment, it tumbled past her, slid off the roof, and left her untouched.
        Howling, the dog fell into the yard, squealed when it hit the ground, and tried to scramble to its feet. Something was wrong with its hindquarters. It couldn't stand up. Perhaps it had broken its pelvis. It was in pain but still so furious that it remained focused on Chyna rather than itself. The dog sat barking up at her, its hind legs twisted to one side at an unnatural angle.
        Not barking, wary and watchful, the other Doberman also had come through the broken study window onto the porch roof. This was the one that she'd squirted twice with ammonia, hitting the muzzle both times, for even now it shook its head and snorted as if plagued by lingering fumes. It had learned to respect her, and it wasn't going to rush at her as rashly as the other dog had done.
        Sooner or later, of course, it would realize that she no longer had the spray bottle, that she was holding nothing that might be used as a weapon. Then it would regain its courage.
        What to do?
        She wished that she hadn't thrown the sponge mop into the yard. She could have jabbed at the Doberman with the wooden handle when it attacked. She might even have been able to hurt it if she poked hard enough. But the mop was beyond reach.
        Think.
        Instead of approaching her across the porch roof, the Doberman slunk along the front wall of the house, its shoulders hunched and its head low, away from her but glancing back. It reached the open window of Vess's bedroom, and then it slowly returned, alternately looking down at the shards of moonlight-silvered glass among which it carefully placed its feet and glaring at her from under its brow.
        Chyna tried to think of something in the motor home that could be used as a weapon. The girl could pass it up to her.
        She said softly, "Ariel."
        The dog halted at the sound of her voice.
        "Ariel."
        But the girl didn't reply.
        Hopeless. Ariel could not be coaxed into action fast enough to be of any help.
        When finally the Doberman attacked, Chyna wouldn't be lucky again, either. This one would not hurtle across the porch roof and slide off the motor home without getting its teeth in her. When it leaped at her, she would have nothing to fight with except her bare hands.
        The dog stopped pacing. It raised its tapered black head and stared at her, ears pricked, panting.
        Chyna's mind raced. She had never before been able to think quite this clearly and quickly.
        Although loath to take her eyes off the Doberman, she glanced down through the skylight.
        Ariel was not in the short hallway below. She'd gone forward as she'd been instructed. Good girl.
        The dog was no longer panting. It stood rigid and vigilant. As Chyna watched, its ears twitched and then flattened against its skull.
        Chyna said, "Screw it," and she jumped through the broken-out skylight into the motor home. Pain exploded through her bitten foot.
        The stepstool, which she had pushed aside with the sponge mop, was against the closed bedroom door. She grabbed it and dragged it forward, out from under the skylight.
        Paws thumped on the metal roof.
        Chyna snatched the hammer