Maeve steps in, haltingly, her hand out. She can see the pictures, the faces upside down from where she is. Distant now. The paper has gotten wet at one corner, and in the bottom photo the image wavers, as though the children are floating away.

She can’t do this on her own.

“Give it here,” she says.

He presses the thin strip against his chest.

“Can we do that? Start today over.”

She wants to punch him. She wants him to understand this kind of powerlessness, how it feels to comply only because you’re afraid not to.

“Just fucking give me my photo.” She lurches forward and grabs the strip out of his hand; the corner tearing as she spins away.

“Maeve, did you hear me—”

She’s almost out when he catches up again. His body suddenly between her and the door.

“Maeve. Listen—”

“No.” She holds up a hand. “You listen. I am asking you: Do not come closer. Please. Do not.”

She heaves a chair between them. Waiting for the right moment. In case she has to fight her way through.

“Maeve—”

Maeve—

Iain, his open hand knocking her back, her brow smacking the mirror behind her. Maeve, he says. Maeve. Just look what you’ve done to yourself.

That one time, the only time she ever raised a hand back at him.

Sim shoves the chair and grabs for her shoulder. She spins, trying to wrest herself away; when he hauls her in, she bites his arm, hard. He yells out and grabs at her hair, her neck. Maeve tries for the hatchet, grasping, but it’s deep in her coat pocket, blade up; it slips and she can feel it slice her palm before she can get purchase.

She pulls it out, the pain of the gash shocking enough to make her gasp and fumble. The handle catches on the edge of the pocket, and in an instant it flips away, steel blade ringing against the stone of the hearth. He’s swearing at her or swearing with the effort of trying to fight her.

She gets her fingers around the can of bear spray instead, bringing it up and slamming it into the side of his face like a weapon until he goes stumbling back.

When he lifts his head again, he’s bleeding—the edge of the can has cut him at the brow. Blood runs down over his eye and he dabs at it with his arm to clear his vision. Like he can’t believe what he’s seeing, the blood staining his sleeve.

Iain looked up, his cheek cut and bleeding. She’d caught him with the edge of her ring. He came at her then for real. Threw her back against the mirror, then kicked it in.

She’s on the ground with a long silver shard hidden in her fist. Waiting.

Just a moment too long.