With a savage brutality, and strangely without making the slightest sound, not even so much as a grunt of effort, the man swung the club of wood and smashed it against the side of Letti’s head. The wet thunk of it was a sound Jackie wished she hadn’t heard. Several people in the group let out a sharp scream at the sudden attack.

Letti collapsed to the ground in a heap, her bloodied head coming to rest just inches from where Timon looked on in complete shock. Everyone stood still, frozen by the abrupt, violent turn of events. The man who’d bashed Letti’s head was breathing heavily, and he threw away the thick branch he’d used as a weapon. The clatter of it against the railing of the bridge was like a bell, tolling.

He looked up at them. He was soaking wet, dark hair plastered to his head, a mishmash of clothes sticking to his very fit body. He had dark eyes that somehow still shone with an intense light.

“My name is Minho,” he said, quietly, almost speaking to himself.

He’d been through some crazy chunks of minutes in his life—especially in the last several months—but Isaac thought that maybe the last few minutes had topped them all. He’d been so overwhelmed by the events as they took place that he’d stood in one spot, looking from person to person as their part in the play came onstage. And now some crazy man had jumped over the railing of the bridge like a monkey and bashed Letti’s head in with a giant stick.

And then he’d said his name was . . .

“Minho?” Dominic repeated. “You’re named after the Minho?”

Isaac looked at his friend. “That’s the first question you have?”

As for Minho, himself, he ignored them all and went to Roxy, pulling her into a hug as strong and genuine as the one Trish had given Sadina. Enough to squeeze every last drop of air from her lungs. As a son would hug his mom, Isaac thought with a tweak of pain.

Timon the Gentle Giant seemed as lost in the last few moments as the rest of them. He’d crawled over to the very spot from which their newest visitor had leaped onto the bridge, leaned his back against it, and was staring with lifeless eyes at his partner, slack on the ground. Her chest moved up and down, still alive, but her bloody head sure didn’t look too good.

Someone needed to take charge of all this madness and figure things out, but Isaac didn’t feel like he was that person. He stepped over to where Sadina was whispering something to her mom.

Poking her on the shoulder until he had her attention, he said, simply, “Will you do something? Please?”

“What do you want me to do?”