She led him away from the stairs, across the spill of papers, until they were out of sight to the open doorway at the top.

Someone upstairs was coughing, the sound thick and wet. After a few seconds it sounded more like gargling. A man’s voice, somewhere up in the entry hall, said, “Which way?” Then: “How many?”

The basement was a single large space, rectangular, the stairs close to one end, the furnace and water heater at the other. There were deep plywood-and-two-by-four shelves running the length of the longer walls, full of tools and storage totes and stacks of old magazines. There was no place to hide or take cover.

Danica led Carl to the corner farthest from the stairs, a square yard of space between the furnace and the side wall. She eased him to the floor, getting her first good look at him as she did.

“Oh Christ.” The tone of her own voice rattled her.

The back and side of Carl’s shirt were soaked with blood. His face had gone pale in a way that Danica wouldn’t have thought possible—very close to paper white.

He settled into a seated position, his back against the wall, his gaze focused hard on the stairs across the basement. He raised the pistol, but almost at once it sagged, pulling his arm down like it weighed fifty pounds.

Danica knelt in front of him, her eyes at the same level as his own. He looked at her, but even that seemed like a struggle. His eyes kept losing her.

Then he exhaled hard, seemed to force himself to focus. He looked down and felt for his pocket with his free hand. He slipped his fingers inside and came out with one of the spare magazines. He thumbed a release lever on the pistol, dropped out the existing magazine, and managed to slide the new one into the opening. It locked into place with a definitive click.

He pushed the weapon into her hands.

“Already one in the chamber,” he said. His voice was barely more than a breath. “Just pull the trigger. Eleven shots.” The last two words he could only mouth.

“Carl—”

The old man shook his head. He narrowed his eyes at her—the stern expression she’d hated so much in her teens—and pointed at the stairs. Don’t look at me. Look there.

Danica nodded. She turned where she knelt, raising the pistol. She looked down the barrel, lined up the sights and centered them on the part of the staircase she could see—the bottom two-thirds. She had never held a gun in her life.

Up in the entry hall, the gurgling had stopped. There was no sound upstairs at all.

Danica risked a glance at Carl—and felt her breath catch in a spasm.

The back of his head rested against the cinderblock wall, his eyes open and looking right through her. Carl was gone.