When you wake up, it’s to sunlight streaming through the window, hitting you directly in the eyes. You squint against the bright light and then roll over, whimpering quietly when your tender backside makes contact with the mattress.

You’re alone in bed and confusion slices through you as you sit up and look around. It’s unusual that Martin will let you sleep much later than him; and when you cock your head to one side, you can’t hear him moving around in the bathroom. You can hear the sound of muttering, even if you can’t make out the words.

You slip into the bathroom, splashing water on your face and brushing your teeth before moving back into the bedroom. Opening the top drawer in the set opposite the desk, you pull out your clothes and dress in them quickly.

Even when you’re fully clothed, there’s no sign of Martin. Or Paul. And the muttering is getting louder, as if the person is getting hysterical. You still can’t make out the words, but something about the voice makes the hair on the back of your neck raise.

Halfway afraid of what you might find (isn’t the nightmare supposed to be over now?), you head out of the bedroom and walk towards the main room.

As you get to the door, the person’s voice becomes clear. It’s Martin; and all he’s saying, over and over again, is, “I need to get my land back.”

A cold shiver of fear goes down your spine and, against your better judgement, you shove the door open.

Martin paces the floor of the main room, his rifle clutched in a white-knuckled grip. He continues muttering the words, interspersing, “Bill is gonna pay,” every so often.

Heart leaping into your throat, you step into the room. “Martin.”

He whirls on you, rifle swinging in your direction, aiming at your chest. “Who the hell are you? What are you doing in my house?”

Eyes fixed on the rifle, you take a cautious step forward. “Martin.” Something twists in your gut. You fight to get the words out as your throat threatens to close over and tears fill your eyes. “Martin. It’s me. Grant.”

“I don’t know you. I don’t know anyone called Grant.” The rifle never wavers, aimed at your chest.

You can’t see Paul. Is he already…? But surely you would have heard the gunshot. You couldn’t have slept through that, surely.

The tears spill over, trickling down your cheeks and blurring your vision. You’ve never experienced pain like this before. In many ways, you’d prefer a spanking, even one involving the belt or a switch, than to feel this pain of rejection. “Martin.” His name escapes your lips in a sob.

The rifle wavers. Martin narrows his eyes, shakes his head. Lets go of the weapon with one hand to rub at his temples. When he looks at you again, his eyes are focused. Clear. “Grant.”

You throw yourself at him. There’s no other word for it. He catches you, hard and tight. Crushes you against his chest. It’s harder to breathe, but that’s okay. He’s warm and safe.

“You need to leave.”

The words, whispered in your ear, make you tense up. You pull back in alarm, staring into his eyes, your own wide and still teary. You shake your head vigorously. “No.”

“This isn’t a negotiation, Grant.” Martin slides his hands down to grip your upper arms, firm and tight. “Something went wrong. I’m losing myself. Take the keys. Drive to the reservation. Before I hurt you. I can’t….” His grip tightens on your arms, to the point of being painful. “I love you, so much, but it’s not safe for you to be around me.”

He's telling you to leave and obeying him is instinctual, but how can you just abandon him?