At long last I reached the giant hollowed-out tree where I’d stashed my backpack last time.

Thump. Squelch.

I passed it. The earth swelled into a knoll between two trees and then dropped sharply away, providing a clean line of sight down to the Queen below.

I took my position at the top of the rise, setting the rifle in front of me and fishing two extra rounds from the backpack. I placed the bullets on end on a flat rock. If I missed with the first shot, I’d be lucky to get off a second. There’d be no way I’d have enough time to fire a third, but I wanted the bullet right there within reach as a comfort.

Then I set my eye to the scope.

Thump.

The Queen’s faceless helmet loomed into view. It dipped forward with a plunge—Squelch—then leaned back again, filling the crosshairs.

It took all my control not to rush off a shot.

Reading the wind and my distance, I forced myself to account for drift and holdover. My elbows sank into wet moss. Sweat stung my eyes, and I blinked them clear, arming it off my forehead.

Thump. Squelch.

“I’m sorry,” I whispered to the kid floating off across the plain to join the others.

I set my eye to the scope. Closed my other eye. Flicked off the safety.

Thump.

The shiny black mask dipped forward out of sight.

Squelch.

I didn’t dare move my lips now, but the words cycled through my heart, my brain: I’m sorry.

I eased out a breath through my teeth. Took the slack out of the trigger. Moisture from the moss seeped through my shirt at the elbows.

The seconds stretched out.

The Queen’s head reared back up, filling my scope, the world.

I fired.

The bullet rifled past her head.

She paused, looked to her side. Her mask held no expression, but her body language conveyed puzzlement.

Forcing myself steady, I worked the bolt, the empty cartridge ejecting with a faint pop. As I reached for the flat stone, my hand nudged the nearest round, knocking it into the one beside it. The first bullet tumbled off the knoll, ping-ponging down the slope ahead. The other spun at the very edge of the rock, each turn rotating the end out over the open air.

I plucked it up.

Thumbed it into the chamber.

Worked the bolt.

Eye to scope.

The Queen was still reeled back, gazing to her side, that unreadable mask giving up nothing more than a slight air of confusion.

She swung her head back and looked, it seemed, directly at me.

Her head cocked to one side.

I put a bullet through the mask.