If he calls my bluff, they aren’t going to have to worry about getting shot. I’ll die. Because Tomas will die. The guy whose gun I’m holding walks to one of the shipping crates but there’s no tool. No way to open it, and Tomas is bleeding to death.
He’s going to die on the floor of a warehouse instead of old and gray in our hypothetical front porch rocking chairs with me beside him.
I just found Tommy again.
Nothing else matters but saving him.
Nothing else matters but loving him.
Somehow, the soldier gets a panel off the crate. He and another man carry it over. The four of us tug Tomas onto the wood and they carry him out to an Escalade the panel won’t fit into. Too many seats. My heart is breaking.
“Alright. Lay him on the back seat.” They do as I say, carefully and efficiently. I
