Anne collapses to the floor. Cinnamon follows her down and embraces her, helps her to her feet. Anne’s breath slows. Stepping toward the wall, reaching for her pack, she slides the pistol back into it. There are no words. Watching the trees flit past, everyone closes their eyes. Searching for sleep. Canary and the twins are settled. Trot sits smoking with his back to the wall. Anne opens her eyes. The discomfort is gone. Dredd is gone.

One thought runs through Anne’s mind. Like a pustule, Dredd has been lanced and drained. These girls, these people, were never his personal property. He doesn’t hold ownership or sway of any kind over them. Over anyone. Anne has made sure of that, made sure it is known. This is her family.

HUNTER

HUNTER

Denim rips. Flesh parts and tears. Heated pavement smeared with blood and the face of a woman. Of Hunter’s half brother’s mother. Of Annie. Memories come in distorted shards and fragments. Tiny chunks of time, buried and forgotten. There is the shudder of sound, snapshots of a place surrounded by black. The black eases, and the picture enlarges and become clearer.

There was a bedroom with framed photos over the dresser. A bed, where Hunter’s granddad sat up, his liver-spotted hand running over his hairless pate. Lips part. “Just wanna die. Call me Misery,” he barked. “My name is Misery. And just I’ll lay right here and run my hand over my big bald head.”

Laughter rang from beside his bed. Annie’s face was a living repository of peace—soft and easy, delicate, kind as a human could be. Her blond locks were pulled back, her figure shapely and fit. She fluffed the pillow behind Hunter’s grandfather’s head, telling him, “Stop talking nonsense. You got family here. You’re surrounded by love every day.”

His grandfather called her “Nurse Annie.” His daughter-in-law. Hank laughed. He stood on the opposite side of the bed. It was an old sleigh bed his grandfather had cut, measured, planed, and constructed by hand. Drilled the holes, cut the dovetail joints, stained the wood.

The sun shone through the two windows. The walls were a muted shade of burgundy, framed by white crown molding.

Searching his mind, Hunter had forgotten about this. Repressed it for some reason.

“Come on, Pop, quit talking crazy,” Hank told his father. “Annie’s got a husband.”

“Horseshit. You take me for a dope? She is my daughter-in-law. See how she makes eyes at you and you return the gesture?”

The dementia had confused his grandfather. Every day was something new for him to reacquaint himself with. Something more to rediscover, to figure out. The pictures helped. Bringing back snippets of memories. But it was the present that was beginning to fall apart.

“No, Dad, she isn’t. She got eyes for Sid, her husband. They got a son, Hunter’s age.”