Even if the damn spear is busted, it’ll still go stabby-stabby just fine, and right now, I’m keyed up enough to do some major damage to a gray-shirt. I’ll snap off this spear piece down to a wooden stake and go full Buffy on the Reverend. Don’t corner a country possum like me. For the second time today, I slink my hand across Marcos’s waist—but this time, it’s all business. My hand closes around a fistful of keys and unhooks it from his belt clasp.

“I love you, Drew,” Briggs whispers to the wall, his crying simmering to a low boil. “I love you, boy…”

“Is he okay?” I ask Darcy as I spool through Marcos’s keys.

“No,” she says. “Apparently, Drew didn’t kill himself—”

“We know,” Marcos and I moan together. But Darcy doesn’t pause.

“The Reverend came by talking about it like Briggs wasn’t even in the room, and now he’s been jabbering at the wall for an hour, and I want to absolutely strangle myself—hey, Boss, you even know what key you’re looking for?”

My shivering fingers hunt through the last of the dozen nearly identical keys when I realize: “I don’t…”

“Marcos, get over here and open this door! Briggs isn’t going anywhere.” Marcos shuffles backward, and I hand him back his keys. While he searches, Darcy holds his spear. “How in the hell did you boys get sticks like this…?”

“I LOVE YOU!” Briggs screeches without warning, and startled, Marcos’s key ring clatters to the floor somewhere in the dark. He retrieves them easily, but it’s back to square one looking for the cage key. I linger two steps behind and study Briggs in profile against the wall—his grizzled, handsome face is caving in on itself. “I’m sorry I never said it before, baby boy, I love you. I promise I’ll say it, just please come back…I’ll take you out of here. Anywhere, I don’t care. I’m sorry I wouldn’t let you go home. I didn’t want to be alone. I was selfish, and, and, and, and,”—Briggs stutters through his hyperventilation—“and I’ll never forgive…please don’t be dead. PLEASE.”