Ronnie must’ve noticed Bree lying beside Court when he ducked his head into the tent flap, but he didn’t say anything. He glanced at her, then at Court, and asked simply, “Where’s your gun?”
“My…what?” Court raised himself up on his elbows and frowned at his friend. “What do you want it for? You already have one.”
“Just give it,” Ronnie said.
There were two guns, twins, one worn at Ronnie’s hip and the other tucked safely into the bottom of Court’s backpack. When the first reports of the virus had started filling the airwaves, it was Ronnie who suggested they buy protection. Court was against the idea from the start. “I don’t like guns,” he’d said. “I have terrible aim. Ask Jeanie. Most days I even miss the toilet.”
Ronnie hadn’t laughed at the lame joke. “Things are only going to get
