Page 128 of Last Light

I certainly don’t do it on purpose.

But my hand seems to move on its own. Down Travis’s arm. Lingering at his wrist. Then he’s taking my hand.

I squeeze his. I can’t help it. And he holds on firmly even after my fingers loosen, so I couldn’t pull my hand away even if I wanted to.

I don’t want to.

We hold hands as we keep walking.

He said we needed to talk, but he doesn’t seem to be in a hurry to do so. He’s more relaxed now than I’ve seen him since we left our little house. His hand is warm and strong, and it’s holding mine tightly.

We find a crow on a high branch, and it caws down at us disapprovingly, chiding us over sins we’re completely unaware of.

It makes me laugh.

Travis squeezes my hand.

We walk until we reach the end of the woods. My thoughts are on Travis—on what we’re going to say to each other when he finally decides to speak—and it never occurs to me that we aren’t being careful.

But we aren’t.

And we both know better.

We clear the woods, still holding hands, and then jerk to an abrupt stop at what we see.

Three men, sitting around a campfire.

I recognize one of them immediately. It’s the grizzled guy who was on the motorcycle—with the four others who circled us the other day. The ones we assumed are scouts for the wolf drove. I assume the other two men with him are two of the four, but I wouldn’t be able to recognize them.

I recognize the grizzled guy though. Three motorcycles are propped up nearby.

The men are obviously taken by surprise just like we are. They’ve been drinking beer and chewing tobacco.

I’m shocked at encountering them again, but I shouldn’t be. We’re doubling back to the same area we saw these guys the first time.

And Travis and I haven’t been paying attention at all.

At all.

The grizzled guy told us last time that if he sees us again, we wouldn’t be coming away from the encounter alive.

And if they go a little farther, they’ll find the caravan. They’ll be able to alert the drove.

Everyone at the hotel will be in danger.

There’s a weird moment where the five of us stare at each other—poised on the cusp between recognition and action—and none of us move a muscle.

Travis is the one who responds first. He pushes me behind him and raises his shotgun into position. “Run,” he bites out. “Now. Into the woods. Find help.”

I do what he says. It’s pure instinct. I’m scared, and it’s hard to ignore the authority of his voice. So I turn on my heel and run.

One of the guys shoots at me.

I really can’t believe it, but he does. I don’t know which one because I’m facing in the opposite direction, but the gun was obviously aimed at me. I know it because the bullet whizzes right past me, so close I feel the air shuddering just beside my left ear.

Travis lets out an outraged bellow. Then he fires. I assume it’s him. Then there’s more firing. A lot of it. Loud. Deafening. Terrifying.

I hear the dog snarling, more fiercely than I’ve ever heard him. Then there’s an unfamiliar voice cursing, and the dog lets out a pained yelp.

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