The memory made me stop right there in the woods. I crouched in front of him and dug my fingers into the scruff beneath his collar the way he loved. He panted through his dog smile, that big tail pulling his rear end back and forth, back and forth. “Good boy,” I told him as we started off again. “Good, good boy.”

Keeping to the pines, we circled the town square, gradually making our way to the bluff behind Bob n’ Bit Hardware. No sign of Hosts anywhere. Had they all left with the kids as part of whatever awful plan was going down in Lawrenceville?

If so, that would make the front part of my mission easier but what was coming much, much harder.

Cassius and I scampered down the bluff to street level, careful not to skid out on loose rocks. Then we ducked behind a car. Lowering to my belly, I peered through the tires. Way across the square, a Mapper was walking his paces. I watched until he vanished up a side street, and then I crept from cover toward the rolling rear door of the hardware store.

Orange light flickered around the edges of the door, and when I put my hand on the metal handle, it was warm from the blacksmith forge inside. I eased it aside, just wide enough that I could peer through with one eye.

Melted pistols and rifles were scattered around the burning forge. A few more still lay across the fire, devoured in the spots where the flickering flames touched them. A blackened set of tongs was sunk into the glowing coals, the handles sticking up like rabbit ears. On the anvil lay a revolver, its barrel hammered out of shape. Lumps of metal filled a crate beside the anvil.

Spilled across the floor in heaps like glittering treasure were countless rounds. The piles rose waist-high.

I’d been counting on finding them here.

You couldn’t burn bullets. Not without turning yourself into Swiss cheese.

The farthest stretches of the store were dark. Even so, I could see no Hosts. I listened for a moment but heard no movement.

Nudging the door open another few inches, I crept inside, Cassius slithering through with me, tangling in my legs. I fumbled Sheriff Blanton’s revolver, a .357, out of the holster, set it on the floor, and started digging through the mounds of ammo. Rounds spilled over my hands and wrists, leading to mini-landslides. As the bullets clattered on the floor, I winced, shooting glances at the dark reaches of the store. The baling hooks were swinging around on their nylon loops, getting in my way, so I slipped them off and laid them aside.