LEONE
Milo’s shoulder leaks a steady pulse of red down his vest, he just cradles it with his good hand and waves me off. “I’m fine,” he spits, teeth locked, blood slick between his fingers. “The bullet went clean through. Nothing vital.” His eyes don’t meet mine; I nod, anyway. We both know the difference between a wound and a reason to stop.
The barn stinks of burned hay and acrid gasoline; there’s a worse smell underneath: the coppery, animal stench of fresh death. Milo keeps pace beside me, face carved into stone. Fallon’s silhouette stands just outside the splintered barn doors. She’s like a mannequin left behind in an evacuation—motionless, pale.
Her arms hug her ribs so tightly it’s like she’s bracing for an aftershock. Her eyes are fixed ahead, unblinking, glassy, and vacant. She
