That seemed to amuse her and she gave a chuckle that quickly became a paroxysm of coughs that shook the thin body. She moaned and tried to guard the broken shoulder and the stump of her arm. Franny knew she was a monster who had kidnapped jokers, forced people to fight to the death for pleasure and profit, but she was also a suffering old woman. He held her close, trying to steady the bones in her shoulder while the nurse held the stump of her arm to keep it still.

Eventually the spasm passed, and he laid her back down. She was panting in pain, and sweat slicked her face. He wiped it away with the towel and went to get her a cup of water. The withered lips closed on the edge of the cup as he held her against his shoulder, and guided the cup to her lips. After a few sips she nodded and he put her down again.

“My name is Mariamna. Mariamna Solovyova.”

Thursday

THURSDAY

MOLLIE STAYED AT THE hospital all night. She stayed, numb, until somebody (the cop? a doctor? she barely remembered the conversation) convinced her that Dad, Brent, Mick, Troy, and Jim had been stabilized after their first rounds of emergency surgery. Or, at least, that they weren’t in immediate danger of dying from their wounds the second she opened a portal in space leading back to the farm. Which was about all the reassurance on offer; Jim and Troy wouldn’t come out of emergency surgery for hours. The doctors were still in triage mode; saving the remains of the brothers’ faces had never been an option.

There were physical injuries and there were mental wounds. Dad and the boys would have a crippling case of both. Mollie wore one around her neck and another in the images that snaked through the dark spaces of her mind every time she closed her eyes.

She stepped from a hospital stairwell into the barn. Staring at the pile of blood-spattered loose change from the slot machines, she realized her mistake. She didn’t want to be here. She wanted to be anywhere but here. She wanted to steal some food from the fridge and go to her Bismarck bolt-hole. She entered the farmhouse the regular way, through the kitchen door. And was immediately enveloped with a warm buttery, creamy, beefy aroma: Mom was cooking a big pot of stroganoff.

Oh, shit. Mom, thought Mollie. She’d never thought to go get Mom, or warn her that half the family was in the hospital with grievous injuries. The kitchen door banged shut behind her before she could catch it. Mom came into the kitchen a second later, as though summoned by the racket. She still wore her apron, and carried a dish towel draped over one shoulder.