Chapter 11
My limbs ache, and my temples throb, but the pain is more psychic than physical. Stabs along my left shoulder remind me that, yes, Orson Yates did shoot me. The sensations wash over me, harsh and quick and unrelenting. Then what feels like a soothing balm coats everything—my limbs, my face, even the roaring ache inside my head. I can’t tell if I’ve opened my eyes or not. It’s the same either way.
The air is stuffy. Despite the dark, the space feels enclosed. I reach out a hand, let it travel along a series of what feels like splintered lumber and jagged rocks. Then I encounter something else.
The warm, solid form of Malcolm.
A cry catches on the dust in my throat. With careful fingertips, I skim his shoulders, his head, find the pulse in his throat and the gentle rise and fa
