Miranda stared at the steak knife she had just driven through her hand. It was the last steak knife she owned. Peering through the strands of her dyed black hair, she watched the handle flick quickly back and forth from the impact. Her brown eyes followed the wooden handle as it began to slow its frantic swaying. She traced the wood grains down to the metal serrated blade. It was not a fancy knife. Part of a hodgepodge set of utensils her mother gave her to help furnish her first apartment.