Nell did not expect to feel homesick with all the bullets flying around, so it caught her by surprise. Her dad had loved the shooting range. Was it genetic? Not a good time to be the only one not packing—carrying. Not carrying. Was it proximity with the goons that was messing with her vocabulary? She hadn’t learned to think goon at home, that was for sure.
One of the goons staggered back, falling on his back almost under her nose. He blinked, his stone face breaking into surprise. Surely he knew that being shot was one of the risks of being a goon?
He looked at her looking at him and surprise gave way for something else. Something that prompted her to lean forward. His hand grasped her arm between the wrist and the elbow, the grip on the feeble side.
“Take it.”
She started to ask what,
