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Tom walked Anna to the water’s edge. He bathed her face, then his own. She winced and let out tiny gasps of pain. He went to the glove box hoping for a first aid kit or bandages but found only used cartridges, blood splatter, cigarettes, and a flask of whisky. He sipped some and gave some to Anna, then lit two cigarettes.
“I am sorry, Tom. I am sorry I dragged you deeper into this.”
“Anna, I made my bed.”
But Anna shook her head. “The book, Tom. The book I gave you.”
“The Chekhov?”
“Yes, they were going to trade me for it. I needed to give you something that you could use to bargain for my life. They were going to kill me today. I am of no further use to them, but I reminded them that I still knew where the book is and that you’d trade it back to them for me. They saw you leave yo
