Eden Lake ● <EASY>
The rest was a blur of thorns and adrenaline. She broke into a woman's house—a nice woman, with a kettle and a kind face. Safety. Rescue. The police were coming. The nightmare was over.
They didn't run after them. They herded them. Every path Steve and Jenny took toward the road, a quad bike would appear, idling, headlights off. A rock would sail out of the dark. A taunt. "Where you going, teacher? Lesson's not over." Eden Lake
Then the woman's son walked into the kitchen. Adam. The youngest. The rabbit. He looked at Jenny, and his eyes weren't scared. They were hungry. For approval. For belonging. The rest was a blur of thorns and adrenaline
They appeared at dusk, a pack of five, their ages a blur between fourteen and nineteen—all skinny limbs, hard eyes, and cheap lager. Brett was the alpha. He had a face that hadn't yet decided whether to be handsome or cruel, and a way of standing that was a coiled threat. The others—Paige, the nervous one; Cooper, the eager dog; Mark, the silent muscle; and Adam, the youngest, a boy with a rabbit's heart—orbited him like satellites around a black star. Rescue
