Fallon
“Milo!” I drop to my knees beside him, the floor gritty against my skin, my heart slamming against my ribs like it’s trying to break free. Blood pools beneath his still form, dark and accusing in the dim light. My hands shake as I reach for him, fingers already slick with red. Not him. Not Milo. Not now.
I scramble to roll him over, my breath coming in short, desperate gasps. He’s heavy, dead weight – no, not dead, I can’t think that word and I strain against his bulk. When I finally manage to turn him, he gasps sharply, the sound like a gift in my ears. Blood trickles from the corner of his mouth, a thin crimson line tracking down his stubbled jaw.
My hands press against his chest, searching for the wound, for the tear in fabric that would mean a bullet found its mark. Instead,
