The first shot I heard convinced me I was going to die. Really die. I don’t know guns. I don’t know that culture first-hand, even growing up in the sticks. But, despite it sounding far away, when I heard the c***k of the rifle a part of me was destroyed like another childhood mirror. Perhaps Red was more interested in telegraphing what was to come. I had no choice but to believe in a number of truths simultaneously: despite all attempts at resisting what I’d seen, the bodies were real; that Red was behind the deaths of Pete, the band, others; the ballooning picture of many more bodies, accumulated over time. Many.
Another rifle shot in the air.
Trapped.
And all this time I had been groomed. That, despite our affinity, he’d seen me as a target. A resource.
Ayanna.
Our affinity for mu
