You pull the clothes on instantly, wanting to obey your lover. But by the time you’re fully dressed, your mouth has gone dry and your hands are clammy. You move forward, into Martin’s embrace, and cling to him. When his arms wrap around you in return, the warm, familiar embrace makes you tear up. “I don’t want to leave you.” The words come out in almost a moan.

“I know.” Martin kisses your neck. He does that several times before whispering, “But we don’t have a choice.”

You want to beg, cry, plead with him. To keep at it until you wear him down and he finally allows you to stay, because you can’t imagine leaving without him.

But you don’t. You keep your mouth shut. You let him lead you towards the bedroom door, pausing only to retrieve his rifle. Then, he hesitates, eyes flickering towards the hall.

“What is it?” Almost instinctually, your words come out in a whisper.

“One of them’s out there.” Martin’s voice is low. Pitched only for your ears.

You swallow hard. “Paul?”

“I haven’t seen him last night.” Martin leads you by the hand through the hallway and towards the front door, keeping his body protectively in front of yours. He nods towards your sneakers. “Put those on.”

You do and, once you straighten up, Martin takes your hand once more. He angles his body in front of yours, reaches out and pulls open the door.

There’s a flash of steel; a wild laugh. And then Martin stumbles back into you, his body suddenly weak, the rifle dangling precariously from his hand. “Fuck.”

You reach to support him and he sags into you. Something warm and wet coats your fingers. Blood.

“Hurts like a son of a bitch, doesn’t it?” The speaker is one of the kids who got himself killed joyriding. His grin is manic. In one hand, he holds a switchblade stained with blood. Martin’s blood. “It might not kill you, but it’ll still hurt like hell.”

Martin’s hand grips your shirt in a white-knuckled grip. With his other hand, he swings the rifle up and catches the teenager full in the face with the butt.

As the younger man stumbles back, blood pouring between his fingers that he clasps to his face, Martin shoves the car keys into your hand and pushes you down the porch steps, towards the car. “Go.”

You hesitate, eyes drawn to the blood seeping through his shirt.

“It won’t kill me.” He pushes you again. “Go, Grant. Now.”

You scramble to unlock the driver’s door. To pull it open. Then sit, tug your seatbelt into place as you turn the keys in the ignition.

Martin turns away from you, facing the teenager with his rifle raised and his aim steady.

You have no other options than to drive to the reservation.