“My dad,” the kid said. “He’s, uh—”

“Shhh,” I said. “We’ll call your dad on the way to the hospital. Don’t worry.”

Gattling held the towels down with direct pressure, and I stared at the open window. The room smelled like a mix of Lysol and vomit.

“Ambulance is three minutes away,” Gattling said to the kid.

“What happened?” I asked, and the kid looked from Gattling to me, his breathing fast.

“The old man,” he said. “He just st-st-started shooting.”

“The guy watching you play pool?” I asked, and the kid nodded.

Son of a bitch. He’d run right past me on my way to the bathroom.

“The little guy,” Gattling said. “He made it out that window?”

“He pushed me into the old man,” the kid said. “Knocked us both over and jumped to the sink.” The kid looked down at his own blood, and his eyes went wide again. “Some parkour move. Jumped out the window headfirst.”

“The old man was the one who shot you?” I asked.

The kid nodded, and I made eye contact with Gattling. There were two men out there in the night, and Remy didn’t know it. The old guy, whoever he was, was after the short guy.

“Go,” Gattling said. “I got this.”

I stood up. “Direct pressure,” I said. “Keep it up.”

I left Gattling with the kid and took off toward the fire exit.

I was out back in five seconds and saw Remy, halfway up an incline behind the bar that headed into the woods. She heard the back door slam and turned.

“Little guy’s gone,” she hollered. “But I saw something.”

“Wait.” I ran up a slope full of kudzu, my calves burning as I hustled.

“Old white guy from the bar,” I said, half out of breath. “Shot at the little guy. That’s who hit the kid.”

Remy nodded, not at all out of breath.

“Makes sense,” she said. “I saw two figures, not one.” She pointed at the woods, and we took off, with me following her lead.

My partner ran five miles every morning, and she moved effortlessly around vertical stripes that marked the shapes of ironwood and hickory in the dark.

Up ahead, she came to a stop, and we listened.

There were movements in the forest, but it was dark. The sounds of animals and twigs creaked. Or maybe it was the sound of men.

Clack, clack, clack.

Three shots lit up the forest, but weren’t aimed at us. By the third one, we saw there was a man about thirty yards west of us. And no fire came back from where he’d shot.

We moved left, trying to outflank the shooter, but in a minute he saw us coming.

Bam, bam, bam.

Spits of dirt flew up in front of us, and I dove to the ground.

But Remy was frozen. Standing there, right in the glow of the man’s flashlight.

“Who the fuck are you?” the old guy hollered. He stared at Remy, who looked like a college kid in her UGA sweatshirt.