The shot split the night: a thunderclap that awakens, a rock shattering a window, a frozen lake cracking. Juan sat up in bed, and I jumped to my feet. It wasn’t the storm, it wasn’t a fallen piece of furniture, it wasn’t a magical or supernatural phenomenon: it was a gunshot. I knew that dry sound because my father and grandfather had taught me to shoot. It was a large weapon, for hunting, and I recognized it too, because my father hunted his whole life, and because when he was drunk, he would fire it inside Puerto Reyes.

The second shot came accompanied by a man’s indecipherable screams. Juan got out of bed too, barefoot. A sudden modesty made him quickly throw on pants. When I started to peer out into the hallway he grabbed me hard by the arm, but I pulled away to go and look out the window. We could normally see the bodyguards from our room. They weren’t at their posts. I heard Genesis’s unmistakable voice, the Scottish accent, begging please. Saying Eddie’s name. There were running feet. Bodies hitting the floor. More screams. Some minutes later, the door opened. I screamed, I couldn’t help it. It was Stephen. He was half-naked, pale, and furious as always when he was afraid. It’s my brother, he said. He’s coming for you.

Another scream, a woman’s, along with another gunshot. Laura. More screams and crashing furniture. Three more shots. The progression was slow. Eddie had to reload the shotgun, but he was killing everyone. After each gunshot, a howl.

He was here, then, said Juan.

But we checked every corner! I yelled at him.

He was in the Other Place, Rosario, Juan murmured.

I understood, but it was too late. Juan had also understood late. I’m a fox, I thought, and I know how to move better than him.

No running, whispered Stephen. I had covered myself with the white blanket, because I was naked. The goal was to reach the service stairs at the end of the hall, which led to the kitchen. We heard more gunshots, and slamming doors. The running footsteps didn’t get very far. Neither did we. Another gunshot, and Eddie came out of the corner bedroom, turned around, and saw us. His face and clothes were spattered with blood. The hallway light was off but we could see him clearly. On his young, freckled face, with its light eyes and halo of hair as red as his mother’s, an expression of relief appeared. He had found the one he was looking for. And he took aim. Incredibly, he missed Juan. Only by a little. He’s missing a finger, I thought. He can’t handle the gun well. The shot grazed my arm, which bled and stained the blanket. It was a superficial wound, but it was enough to enrage Juan: when Eddie tried to reload the gun—clumsily, because a hunting shotgun takes two cartridges—Juan lunged at him, and in a single movement he wrenched away the gun and threw it over the railing. It fell to the floor downstairs. I don’t know how he dared do it: the maneuver required the reflexes of an animal. I wasn’t afraid for him, I remember. I always intuited he was going to win that fight. I wanted to help him, I remember that, too, but I didn’t know how. It wasn’t my story, I think now. They had to resolve it between the two of them. Juan grabbed Eddie by the neck and dragged him to the door that led to the Other Place. He opened it. I followed them. My arm burned like it was in flames. Juan kicked Eddie into the Other Place and dragged him to the end of the passageway. I followed them, running silently. Juan knew what he was doing. He walked with the assurance of a predator.