“You saw how Teague was holding his rifle. There’s no way the kid could do that to him, brother. Charlie shot himself.”

“Oh yeah?” Pittman said. He was still half naked, unfolding his gear over the back rest on his bench. There was no way it would be dry again by morning.

“The prisoner’s bad magic. I’ll tell you what, Walpole shot himself in the fucking throat after he looked the kid in the face. And I heard what he said before he did it, too.”

“You’re full of shit, Pittman.”

Preacher sat up.

Fent took a step between us. She knew I was getting ready to hit Jay Pittman again.

“What did he say?” she asked.

“He called him ‘Jumping Man.’ Just exactly like Preacher was talking about. Jumping Man.”

Then you opened your eyes and sat up. Preacher crawled across the floor and kneeled in front of you, staring into your glazed eyes.

And Captain Fent looked from me to Pittman to you.

“Bad magic,” Pittman repeated.

I took a step toward him and Fent stopped me.

“He doesn’t need to be talking crazy shit like that,” I said. “That’s the last thing we need right now.”

Pittman stood up straight, like he scored some points with Preacher and the captain. “And there’s something strange overhead in the sky all of a sudden, too.”

Preacher pushed our prisoner’s chin up with the edge of his finger, but you snapped your head away from the man.

It wasn’t you; it wasn’t Jack.

I could tell you weren’t really here—in Marbury—yet.

Preacher said, “What’s in the sky?”

“Looks like it’s raining light,” Pittman said. “Like a fucking hole or something.”

Preacher got up from the floor, shaking his head. “I can’t see nothing in that boy. Let’s take a look at that thing in the sky.”

“So I take it you don’t feel like shooting yourself, Preacher?” I said.

I hardly ever said anything to Preacher, Markoe, Uncle Teddy, whoever the fuck he was.

Preacher didn’t react. He had this blank, old-guy look on his face, the kind of look you get from math teachers who think you’re laughing at them when their backs are turned.

What did I care? He was fucked up out of his mind, anyway.

Fent spun around and slapped the top of Brian Fields’s head to wake him up.

Brian bolted, glaring. “Fuck!”

“I need you to keep watch on the prisoner,” Fent said. “Stay awake. If he does anything, shoot him in the head.”

Then she started off toward the front entrance. Pittman, Preacher, and I followed her. It was what we were supposed to do, and she didn’t have to say it.

There was one less guy in our team now, and one less in Team 3, too.

And we were going to have to deal with this prisoner kid—you, Jack.

Or, at least, I’d have to.

I kept thinking about that as I followed Anamore outside to the front of the station.

I glanced back once to make sure that you were still there on the bench where I’d left you.

*   *   *

Most of the others were already assembled on the steps. They stayed huddled around their captains like drone bees on receptive queens. Except for the all-male squad; they were lost and hopeless. They tried to separate and mix in with the other fireteams so not to be noticed.

And people speculated, too, about what the thing in the sky was—if it had any significance. Pittman, shirtless, only shook his stupid head, muttering something about bad magic.

I wanted to hit him, but Fent would castrate me if I made our team look undisciplined in front of the others.

Even Preacher was reluctant to theorize on the hole in the sky. I was relieved for that, because I had the feeling that all these coincidences were going to pile up on me and you.

Preacher said, “I don’t know what it is, to be sure. It’s possible that it could be nothing. Just an anomaly.”

“It’s the breath of God,” Pittman said. “Like you said, Preacher.”

I clenched a fist. I wanted to punch that fucker so bad I shook.

Then Fent looked straight at me and said, “The water’s gone down. When it’s dry enough to walk, take the prisoner out and shoot him.”

That was how she gave orders, especially when she was nervous about something. And I could tell she was getting close to being scared.

“Fine,” I said. “One less human being in the fucked-up world.”

I lifted my shotgun and chambered a round.

I started away from her and the others. “I’ll fucking do it right now in the middle of the fucking station, so everyone can see how we take care of business.”

Fent stepped in front of me. She had a look that said everything at once. She was pissed. I had gone as close to the edge as I could possibly go without falling off the planet.

She took in a long breath through her nose.

“That isn’t what I told you to do.” She was very calm, and her voice sounded sweet and thick. “Take him outside and shoot him. And you can do it now, Sergeant Kirk.”

Her eyes locked on mine. I had to look away.

I lowered my gun and went back inside.

*   *   *

I hoped you had snapped out of it, that maybe you’d waken up from wherever we go when we aren’t here. I was wishing you ran away from the drugged-out Fields, but you were still sitting there on the pew, exactly where I left you.

“Fuck this shit.”

I slammed my gun down against the bench. Brian Fields jumped, startled from his empty-eyed staring at you.

“Your fucking fly’s unbuttoned, asshole,” I said.

Fields didn’t move.

I picked up my shirt and put it on. I was so mad, shaking, I could barely steady my hands enough to tuck it in.

Of course Fent would want me in proper uniform when I took my best friend outside to blow his fucking head off.

Marbury.

The other three had just made it back to our team’s little departures lounge when I finished buckling my gun belt. I picked up my shotgun. My brain raced. I knew I wasn’t going to do what she ordered, and I was trying to calculate which of my options would keep my ass alive the longest.

It wasn’t looking too good.

And it got worse when that dickface Pittman said, “I’d like to go with him, Captain.”

Fuck that.

“I’d rather do it alone.”

I didn’t look at them. I checked the breech on my gun and made certain the clip was filled to capacity. I slung the gun over my right shoulder. If I was going to die for you, Jack, they’d remember us.

“Go with him, Pittman.”

And Jay Pittman would be the first asshole to die.

I said, “Don’t forget to bring your dicks.”

I put my hand under your armpit and lifted you to your feet. You felt cold and small, Jack, and you wavered on your feet, but you were coming back around.

You knew what we were being sent outside to do. You had to know. Well, whoever you were, Jack, because you sure weren’t Jack Whitmore from the cross-country team at Glenbrook High School.

So I pulled you along, not so much as glancing at Fent—and to think, maybe just an hour ago she wanted to take me away to some dirty fucking alcove and have a screw.

Fuck that.

I said, “Come on, kid.”

And Pittman hurriedly attempted to get his wet uniform on correctly so he could tag along for the fun.

I had to think.

I was so mad I wanted to scream.

I practically dragged you over the stairs at the front of the station. Sorry, Jack. Halfway down, you stumbled, but I squeezed your armpit so hard you kept on your feet. You kind of yelped a little, too. It hurt. But you still didn’t say a single word.

Pittman kept one step behind us.

“What did you do to end up here, Three-Seven-Three?” I said.

“Deserter,” you said. “I deserted.”

It was your voice.

Jack.

You lunged forward over the last two steps. Pittman gouged your lower back with the barrel of his rifle.

“Get off him, Pittman. I’ll shove that gun down your fucking throat.”

Pittman eased off.