Franny moved and hissed in pain. Whatever painkillers he’d been given at the hospital had worn off. He was stiff from sleeping in the van, and the bullet wounds were grinding points of agony. He finally climbed out of the van, and rubbed at his arms to try and warm up. Baba Yaga was huddled by the fire. He joined her.

“Can you point me toward where those guys came from?” he asked, pointing at the fish. “I’d like to wash up.”

She indicated the direction with a jerk of her chin. Franny walked off and found the stream a short distance away. The water was bracing as he splashed his face feeling the rasp of thick stubble against his palms. A day or two more of this and he was going to look like the homeless guys in New York—bloody, dirty, and dressed in ill-fitting mismatched clothes. He paused to unbutton his shirt and inspect the bandage on his side. It was dark red with blood and some had trickled down his side. He sluiced off the blood, unzipped, and relieved himself against a nearby tree. He returned to the campfire.

Stache offered him half a fish. He accepted it with a nod of thanks. Baba Yaga was picking at the other half. Stache had a whole fish to himself. Franny supposed that was fair; he was a big guy topping Franny by four inches and Franny was damn near six feet tall.

He studied the old woman from beneath his lashes, but she noticed. “What? What do you want, boy?”

“I want you to level with me. I think you know a lot more about what’s happening than you’re letting on.”

“I do.”

“So tell me.”

“Why?”

“Because … because that way if only one of us makes it the word will get out about … well, about whatever it is that’s happening.”

She gave him one of her bleak smiles that had nothing to do with amusement or joy. “And if I tell you you drop me flat. Why be slowed down by the old woman? That’s what you would think. No, this way you will be careful to keep me safe, and get me to people who might be able to stop what is coming.”

“And maybe you’re just bullshitting, and you have no more idea than I do what’s going on.” He measured stares with her.

Finally she gave a sharp nod as if she had resolved an internal question. “What did you feel?” she asked. “In the hospital.”

“I told you.”

“No, you told me what you saw. What did you feel?”

His appetite gone, Franny set aside his food. He didn’t want to remember. Didn’t want to answer. He realized he was going to have to give something to get something. He said, “Rage. Against … so many people. If any of them had been in front of me I would have—” He broke off, stood, and walked away. He looked back over his shoulder at Baba Yaga. “I’m not that person. At least I don’t think I am. I pray I’m not.”