“Ethan stood there, his face blue and wrinkled, his lips pulled into a rictus grin. In one hand, he clutched a butcher knife. Blood splattered his hands and face. 'Mommy slipped,' he whispered, and plunged the knife into my leg”

“He leans his face close to mine and wraps his fingers around my chin. His hand smells like metal. When was the last time he held a gun, or a knife?”

“Give me the knife!"Simon held out his hand. Lincoln glanced over as he struggled with Albert. "Could you take it out of your hand first?" he said. Simon gritted his teeth and pulled the knife out.”

“My face is in his hands and my lips are at his lips and he's kissing me and I'm oxygen and he's dying to breathe.”

“What is that in his hand?""A cleaver. As in-""Butcher's knife.""You got it.""I hope not.""He does not look happy.""Are you sure it's a he?""I don't want to know.”

“Run,” he whispered. “Run.”“No, Rand,” I said, brushing the dirt from his face. “I’m tired of running.”“Forgive me, please.” He clutched my hand as his eyes beseeched me through tears of pain.“You’re forgiven.”He sighed once, then stopped breathing. The shine in his brown eyes dulled. I pulled his hood over his head.”