My heart aches for these men killing each other. None of them know mercy. And whoever they die for—Michael or Jericho—none of them will find salvation on the other side. They’re just cannon fodder.
Part of me wants to be shocked, but the other part—more urgent—wants nothing more to do with this dark, terrifying world. Let them all die. I just need to escape this hell.
Our steps sink into the soft earth. Michael’s heavy, labored breaths tell me each move is a struggle. I glance up at him several times. He’s sweating, his face twisted with pain. But he doesn’t complain. He keeps walking with me.
I don’t have the drugs, but I saved his life. That must count for something, right? I have to try.
As we approach the woods, I try to gather as many arguments as I can for the upcoming conversati
