“We are here to provide information,” said the other officer. “You are mistaken.” But she saw his hand tighten on the grip of his pistol and she knew that she was not mistaken.

Her eyes found Leela in the crowd, near the back, her black hair hanging sleekly by her right shoulder, half frowning, half smiling. A moment of stillness.

Leela, she mouthed. Leela!

Leela’s half smile froze. Her eyes began to dart.

“You need to get out,” she shouted, as clearly as her breathing would allow. Her voice sounded hoarse, unreal.

“All of you,” she shouted. “Now!”

She turned. She was at the door. She heard the movement of bodies as behind her people pressed forward.

She felt the force of the bullet as it tore through her right shoulder, heard the shouts behind her, then the screams. She brought her left arm up, folded it across her chest and to her left shoulder, pushed out through the door, ran limping along the path.

A marshal tried to stop her. “Are you hurt? What happened?”

“Run,” she said. “Please, run.”

She could hear gunshots now, in pairs, distant, unreal. But the shouts and the screams were very real indeed.

She turned, saw people piling out through the front door, saw a window thrown wide, saw a distant flash, and another. People began to pour from the window. Beside her the marshal, a girl of her own age, eyes wide, frozen. Still the gunshots came, in pairs.

“You need to run,” she said.

The other girl seemed to see her suddenly, to notice the wound in her shoulder.

“You’re bleeding.”

“I’m shot. You need to run.”

“The police are here.” The marshal put an arm around her shoulder, pointed toward the house.

“Those are not the police.”

“Look,” said the marshal.

The gunshots stopped. As she watched, the taller of the men appeared on the veranda, walked slowly down the steps. His pistol was holstered. He had a rifle slung across his back.

“Don’t be alarmed!” he shouted. “We are here to prevent further trouble.”

“You see?” said the marshal. She took her hand, tried to lead her toward the house.

She slipped her hand from the other girl’s. “He is not a policeman.”

“I’m going to get you some help,” said the marshal. She began to walk toward the house.

“No,” she said. “Please.” It hurt to talk; she wasn’t sure if the girl had heard her.

“Everybody!” yelled the false policeman. “Everybody, come! You’re safe! We have the situation under control.”

She looked about her. People were arriving from all directions, converging on the house. People who did not know, though they must have heard the shots.

The second man joined the first. They stood, arms folded, waiting.

No, she wanted to scream. No.