He rushes back to Lincoln. He is quiet, shuddering into himself, rocking around the hole in his stomach. Simon takes off his flannel shirt and with one hand lifts Lincoln off the floor by the collar and shoves his shirt underneath him. There is no blood on the floor, but there is a hole in the back of Lincoln’s Bull’s jacket. Blood seeps out around the edges but not much. Vera is kneeling now.

Simon looks up and sees a hole in the wall with a piece of flesh no bigger than a kernel of rice next to it. He looks back down at Lincoln and presses his knee on Lincoln’s chest and the other on his thighs, as if he were holding open a trap that could spring shut. With his hands he pulls Lincoln’s shirt up and sees the entry wound down and to the left. The blood is dark and seeps out steadily.

There is no stately hush, no paced action, no tragic silence. Death is not a steady march, it is a mad scramble. Lincoln is screaming and Vera has her hand on his forehead.

Everything is happening at once.

“I had a name for you.”

“Vera.” Simon feels he is losing time.

“I had a name. I didn’t use it, but I had one.”

“Vera.”

Lincoln is coughing and Simon looks away from Vera’s strained face. He studies Lincoln’s lips. They are chalked with dried spit but there is no blood.

“Me and your dad, we planned stuff, you know? You weren’t part of the plan, but that was okay.”

“Vera.”

“I got pregnant on that old train. Can you beat that? An old train.”

“Vera. He’s bleeding. We gotta get him outta here.”

“Honey,” she is crooning softly. “I never meant for things to happen like this.”

Simon steadies Lincoln with one hand and with the other jabs Vera viciously in the chest, above her breasts. She gasps and falls back against the display case.

He pins her with his eyes.

“We have to move him to the back so he don’t bleed on the carpet. Then you gonna find something to hide that hole, see?” He points at the bullet hole on the back wall. He rocks his knees off Lincoln’s body and stands up. They each grab an arm and a leg and half-slide, half-carry him to the back room. Lincoln sucks in great mouthfuls of air, he tries not to cry out.

“Lincoln, you hear me?”

He nods.

“We’re gettin you outta here. We’re gettin you outta here and you ain’t gonna go to jail.”

“No?” he says, the short word packed with hope.

“No.”