“Bang,” he said, feeling the assault rifle thrust into his shoulder. “Bangbangbangbangbang.”

The front line of his pursuers fell.

He leapt and rolled behind a sturdy tree, pressing so hard against it that the rough bark made a bruise on his back and he wondered if the tree might topple over. He hugged his rifle to his chest. His pulse pounding. He could feel his own heart in his ears. It threatened to drown out all other sounds.

Like swiftly approaching feet.

Laurent tried to steady himself. His breathing. His trembling.

He’d been through this before, he reminded himself. And he’d always escaped. Always. He’d escape today. He’d get back home. And there he’d have a hot drink and a pastry. And a bath.

And he’d soak away all the terrible things he’d done, and was about to do.

His hand dropped to the pocket of his torn and muddy jacket. His fingers, knuckles scraped to the bone and bleeding, felt inside. And there it was. The cassette. Safe.

Or, at least, as safe as he was.

His senses, honed and heightened, instinctively took in the musky scent of the forest floor, took in the shafts of sunlight. He took in the frantic scramble of chipmunks in the branches above him.

What he no longer heard were footsteps.

Had he killed or wounded them all? Would he get home after all?

But then he heard it. The telltale snap of a twig. Close.

They’d stopped running and were now creeping up on his position. Surrounding him.

Laurent tried to count the feet, tried to estimate the number by the noise. But he couldn’t. And he knew then it didn’t matter anyway. There would be no escape this time.

And now he tasted something foreign. Something sour.

He had terror in his mouth.

He took a deep breath. In the moments he had left, Laurent Lepage looked at his filthy fingers clasped around the assault rifle. And he saw them, pink and clean, holding burgers and poutine and corn on the cob and sweet, silly pets de soeurs at the county fair.

And holding the puppy. Harvest. Named for his father’s favorite album.

And now, at the last, as he hugged the rifle, Laurent began to hum. A tune his father sang to him every night at bedtime.

“Old man look at my life,” he sang under his breath. “Twenty-four and there’s so much more.”

Dropping the rifle, he brought out the cassette. He’d run out of time. He’d failed. And now he had to hide the cassette. Falling to his knees, he found a tangle of thick vines, old and woody. No longer caring about the noise approaching, approaching, Laurent Lepage parted the vines. They were thicker, heavier than he’d realized and he felt a spike of panic.

Had he left it too late?