With every nerve and muscle in my body, I waited for the whole friggin’ army of arsonist, decapitating, child-murdering, rapist sons of bitches to burst right in, so I could shoot every last fucking one of them.

But it was still in the room after that. The Adders ceased gasping and gurgling. I heard nothing but my own tight breathing. As my blind fury ebbed, I slid toward the comfort of shutdown. Hunched in my corner, cradling the cooling little death-dealer, unable to move for what felt like forever. Be so easy just to go off again. From horror to denial to . . . simply forgetting. To sweet oblivion, my dear old friend. As I curled up to welcome it, the gun butt poked me hard in the belly.

And then . . . thought is astonishing, how it light-speeds into your head. Nothing there one moment, then suddenly . . . a thing my shrink hinted I’d figure out when I was ready. About the lie I’d been living. Memory loss wasn’t something that had happened to me. I’d let it happen. I’d chosen it. Because it was easier.

All that heroic Wave survivor stuff? Total bullshit. Truth is, when Rousseau found me, I’d already given up and gone down for the last time. My survival had been pure chance, nothing more.

Was I back there again, ready to let go and drown?

Had Rousseau, Spunk, Jake, even Jenn, and especially Rubio taught me nothing?

Was victimhood more precious than knowing if Daniel was living or dead?

Noise from outside penetrated my fog, a rush of whooping and cheering. I’d clamped my eyes shut, avoiding the grim evidence of what anyone can and will do if hard enough pressed. I made myself look, scanning the dim room for the two lumpish, half-naked bodies sprawled in the gleam of their own blood, and against the wall, the darker form of Daniel, face down. Was he even breathing?

His faint groan got me moving, on my feet, then on my knees beside him. Every place I touched was sticky with blood. I struggled to turn him over, as if he weighed a ton. Dead weight, I feared, until he groaned again, louder. Once I got him on his back, he coughed and gasped, sucking in air like it was life itself. I pressed his shoulders down, urging him to lie still, but he shoved my hands away and fought to prop himself up on one elbow.

“What . . . ?”

I sat back on my heels, watching him get his senses back, then take in the half-lit, rain-drenched room, the scattered Adder dead.

“Who . . . when did I do . . . ?”

I shook my head and set the pistol down in front of him.

“You? Really?” The realization seemed to stun him more than the Adder’s blows. “Are you okay?”

Wasn’t ready to answer that question. Or say anything at all, not yet.