Blood ran in streamers down his back, but he never cried out, never asked for mercy. There are some stories, some memories, that if you tell them after dark, they seem to gain weight, substance, as if there are things listening, waiting to hear themselves spoken of again. It was an old-fashioned, courtly movement, as if he'd done it before and meant it. Where's that famous temper of yours? Maybe I'm growing up, I said.
Maybe the Uzi was overkill for a human being, but if by some chance I emptied the Browning into Olaf's chest and he didn't go down, I wanted to make sure he didn't reach me. His voice was sort of subdued, but it was clear. Does anyone have a bag that I can carry this in? Someone finally found an empty equipment bag and let me spill the heart into it. I hoped the lie was the right answer.
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