Zula was not feeling anything like what they wanted her to feel. She simply wanted to kill them. And had it not been for Jones’s helpful suggestion, she might have failed to give them the performance they wanted: the only thing that could save Yuxia’s life. But a couple of the details—Yuxia’s swimming hair, and the blood streaming freely from the end of Zula’s pinky—were enough to send Zula over the edge, into some kind of community-theater method-acting headspace in which she finally let go of all the grief and rage that had been accumulating in her emotional buffer during the last several days and let herself fly out of control and degenerate into the weeping, wailing, messed-up, out-of-control basket case that these guys apparently wanted to see.