Chapter One
The light comes on and I hear someone behind me chambering a round. I don’t need to be told to freeze.
“Turn around slowly,” she says.
When I do, I’m staring down the barrel of a shotgun. She has it tucked under her arm with the stock braced against the back of her wheel chair. If the gun goes off, the recoil will send the chair flying backwards to slam against the wall, a comic effect I won’t be able to appreciate.
She’s holding a twelve gauge. The barrel looks about as short as the law allows. From the set of her jaw, I’m guessing that she is spiteful enough to have it loaded with double naught. She isn’t aiming it. She doesn’t need to. If she decides to touch the trigger, I won’t just die. I will come apart.
“Who are you?” she demands.
I’m Hung Low—that’s the handle th
