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    Summary

    The memory was a drowsy flash: packed away in the night in the back of a station wagon under a wool blanket, Ray had still believed the rifle’s trajectory would somehow find him, the watching eyes would see and take aim. He’d flailed and thrashed to get back walking, until someone shot him with a sedative. He'd woken somewhere that smelled wet and thoroughly rural, feeling sick enough to be dead, but slowly and finally aware that he would live for the time being.

     

    Thinking back on it again and again, he was sure there had been a hand grasping his arm in a panicked instinct, not one of the fighters but someone trying to keep him and Ray linked together in the confusion before they were quickly pulled apart.

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