It seemed he could see it. A figure in black, lithe, fearless, stealing across the humble plate of a residential backyard. Bart's claws scraping the pressure-treated lumber as he ambled toward the familiar smell, then looked up, tongue lolling, into the soundless muzzle-flash. And there she stood, a trick of the eyes, a creature from beneath the floorboards, gazing at the father asleep on the deck, laughing at the pathetic sense of gallantry she knew he must have felt standing guard over his children, over his son. Just another know-nothing huddled in the low circle of his possessions, things prized for an hour before fading into the fog of background shame. Just another father filled with bluster, blind to the tracks that others had cut through his home.

It seemed he could see her, Sam, kneeling before the orange glow of the kids' tent.

'Mackenzie tweaked Frankie?' Neil asked sharply.

The first shot passed clean through her neck, giving her time to turn around and stare at Thomas in round-eyed amazement—at Mia's revolver shaking in his contorted hands. She raised her Glock in a manikin arm. The second shot took her to the left of her nose, throwing her back off of Neil and onto the floor. She landed like luggage. Her nude body convulsed for several heartbeats, then went very still.

Thomas had swung to his side to aim with his hands bound. His right hand tingled, as though he'd driven a golf ball or a nail. Neil stared at him.

Thomas gagged and coughed. He spat blood and snot across the floor. 'Anything,' he croaked, 'does not fucking go.'

The high-pitched chorus of frogs through the screened windows. The counterpoint of crickets under the beaten trim. Two mosquitos danced like dandelion fluff beneath the yellow light.

Mia's handgun clattered against the hardwood.

Slowly, carefully, Thomas pulled himself to his feet. After hopping precariously into the kitchen and sawing himself free with a steak knife, he returned, gathered the guns, then cautiously began freeing Neil. He held Sam's Glock on him the entire time. Neil watched him with an open, expectant face. Neither man said a word. Breathing, it seemed, was eloquence enough.

Once free, Neil stood, rubbed his wrists. Thomas found himself searching his eyes, although for what he did not know. Unnerved by the flat candor of his stare, he glanced down at Sam. Sprawled like a doll. Cold like rubber. Long pins of blood seeped through the grooves in the hardwood flooring, shining like cherry syrup. Her face was beginning to swell.

Could this be her? It seemed impossible. Once again, the look of her had been cut from the knowledge. Once again she had leapt from the envelope of his expectations.

Thomas began shaking so violently that he stumbled into an overstuffed easy chair. His face tightened, as though bound by rubber bands. With each sob, something seemed to snap within him.

'I… I…' he tried to gasp.