Chapter 79

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The shot is cleaner than expected. I watch it all in slow motion. Like one of those documentaries about high-speed photography.

In one frame, the revolver barrel is in Taw's eye socket. Little by little, the back of his skull flakes away. Like a chick pecking out of an egg.

Tunnel vision fixates my eyes on Taw's face. It's a common effect, I've read, in high stress situations. It gives me the focus to bring my other hand up. Push Taw away from the bed a millisecond after the shot.

I see the top of the grain bin, too. The proverbial light at the end of the tunnel seeps through. Where the frozen grain fell.

I blink and adjust my eyes. The light isn't coming from the top of the grain bin. It's shining through a jagged hole in the RV wall where the mushroomed bullet passed through. A bright beam of light points to Taw's gore on my shirt. The bed. The wall.

It's dark out, though. There's only one explanation for the light. Headlights. Aimed at the RV.

I hear a chorus of doors slamming. Feet rushing. The crew will be here any second.

Sam's a mess, literally and figuratively. She dodged most of the gore, but she's still bleeding. My eyes follow the red trail up her bare leg. It slips under her long shirt and toward her waist.

"What's up with you?" I say.

It's way too casual a thing to say in this moment. I know that. But my brain isn't catching up to the situation.  For some reason, I try to lift the shirt up.

"No," Sam says. Squats my hand away.

That's when I notice the wound on her chest. A red dampness turns the cloth of her shirt into a sponge.

"What happened?" I say.

Sam doesn't respond. Just crawls into the fetal position. Tucks everything under that shirt.

I hear shouting outside. Very close.

I rush toward the side entry door. Need to lock up before the crew can get inside.

Too late.

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