If the Bronco was stolen. What would they do? Perhaps buy another vehicle.

Perhaps a new F-150.

When it was near dark, he swept the country with the binoculars. There were houses in every direction. Some obscured by trees. Rolling hills. He studied the land, and he studied the houses, and he judged the distance to each one.

The snow came down harder. The cold.

He checked on the sheriff one last time. No. The sheriff had not found anything yet. He probably wouldn’t now. In the snow. In the dark.

He took the pistol off the passenger seat. Then he opened the door and set off toward the nearest house.

When Jack’s eyes opened, it was dark except for dim orange light. Where was he? Where was Matty? What was this searing heat in his side? Above him, snow drifted in powdery skeins through charred holes in the roof. A great wind flapped the wall slats and shuttled down the chimney. It took him a moment to remember.

You’re at the house. You’re hurt.

He stared up at the hanging ceiling. Through the void, he could see black sky scattered with clouds and the gleaming lamps of stars. A distant world. Unreachable.

With his hand, he felt the bandage at his side. Damp. Matty lay sleeping in the blankets beside him. Fire from the hearth dressed his head in luster and etched the line of his cheek into sculptured marble. He held Batman in his hand.

Jack’s chest tightened suddenly and ached, like a rubber band pulled too hard. He could not inhale—

He sat forward, sucking in breath.

Swell of dizziness.

She slept a few feet away, by the fire. Near his side. Curled on the dank carpet. Her battered coat tucked over her like a blanket. The little tattoo on her wrist. Black heart.

He swallowed. This heaviness in his chest. He lay down and looked up.

Just take some even breaths.

Stars glimmered.

His breathing calmed. He licked his dry lips. Then he turned his head to just look at her for a second, or for a minute, or for an hour. Her walnut hair. Her skin, her eyelashes. In the firelight he could see the curve of her breasts rising and falling under the thin material of her dress. His throat hurt.

He reached and pulled the coat up over her to make sure she was warm. The movement sent a chorus of pain through him. He lay back in the dark and looked up at the broken ceiling, coughing softly. He counted to ten.

He did this six times.

Come on, Jack.

Just breathe.

The pain sank down to a whisper.