Joe focused on the tree. His voice was low. “When I was younger than you are now, Boggs and a couple of his men took me to an old police bunker. It had a firing range. He had his men teach me how to operate a few guns, hit the targets. Then he raped me on the floor. I think he wanted me to believe I was powerful, then get to strip it all away.” He met Peter’s eyes. “Let’s keep going.”
It had never occurred to Peter that Joe was as much a victim in Boggs’s world as Peter himself had been. He didn’t have anything big enough to say. So he placed the end of the rifle in the spot Joe had indicated and let Joe position his hands. He learned how to cuddle his cheek to the rifle and line up the little nubs Joe called sights. He jerked when Joe touched his hips but managed to keep the sights lined up.
Joe pushed Peter’s right hip a little. “Align your shoulders, hips, and feet. Elbows in. Good. See the target?”
Peter grunted.
“Finger straight next to the trigger. When you’re all lined up, fire.”
Peter slipped his finger up and down the smooth metal of the trigger, its slight curve tantalizing and soothing all at once. Was this the rifle Marcus had used to kill Sanders? Peter jerked an inhale and lost the clear line between the sights and the shirt. He closed his eyes and tried to calm down.
“Breathe, Peter.”
Joe’s gentle voice came from Peter’s right, but Peter didn’t turn toward it. Instead, he relaxed his cheek against the butt and breathed. When he was ready, he opened his eyes and realigned the shot.
“Good job, kiddo,” Joe murmured. “Whenever you want.”
Peter inhaled slowly and pulled the trigger.
The sound. The slight burning smell that soured the clean smell of the rain. A sting that zipped from his shoulder and down his core. The shirt ruffled in the faint breeze, its surface marked with water spots but no holes.
“Try again,” Joe said.
Peter lined up the sights. Squinted. Fired. Again. Squint. Fire. On the fourth try, he hit the tree thirty centimeters above and to the left of the shirt. Bark flew off the tree, revealing a soft tan scar of rotted wood underneath.
He pumped his fist in the air. “Yes!”
Joe only smiled.
On the fifth try, Peter hit the tree square, about ten centimeters above the shirt.
“Better,” Joe said this time. “Adjust your aim. One more shot.”
Peter stared at the hole he’d made in the tree. If a person were wearing that shirt, he’d have shot them in the head.
The rifle was heavy. He set it on the ground.
“Will you teach me to fight? I mean, with my hands?” Marcus had told Peter that he once saw Joe break a man’s arm and nose in a fistfight.
Joe opened his mouth, but he wasn’t the one who spoke.
“That might serve you a bit better than learning to fire that gun, young man.”
Peter whirled to find an elderly man standing ten meters away, an enormous furry dog by his side.
***
Joe picked up the rifle and nudged Peter behind him before addressing the man. “Hello. We’ll be on our way now.”
The old man looked him over. “How long’s it been since you’ve had a good meal, young man?”
Thirty-two days. Over a month since they’d left Navarro and Lil’s. Joe’s stomach rumbled.
“I’ll take it that it’s been a while.” The man’s hands had been tucked into the pockets of his coveralls, but he pulled one out now and jerked an arthritic-looking thumb behind him. “Come on up to the house. Me’n the missus’ll fix you up.”
“Thank you for the kindness, but —”
“Can I pet your dog?” Peter was lurching forward before the man even got around to saying yes. Joe grabbed after him, but Peter shook him off. “He has a dog, Joe.”
“That doesn’t mean he’s safe,” Joe snapped.
The man laughed as Peter dropped to his knees and buried his hands in the dog’s thick white fur. “Reckon I’m as safe as you boys are gonna find, but by all means, being cautious ain’t a bad thing. Name’s Clinton. Wife’s Maribou.”
“Peter and Joe,” Peter said, though it came out garbled since the dog’s broad tongue was smothering Peter’s face. “We have three more people with us. Can they eat, too?”
“They as skinny as him?”
Peter regarded Joe, and Joe tried to throttle him telepathically. Peter shrugged. “No. He’s the most starving.”
“Well, Joe-the-most-starving and Peter, let’s get your friends and tell my wife to set a mess of extra places at the table.”
Joe hesitated. Clinton’s clear blue eyes sparkled with warmth, but that didn’t mean anything. If he’d seen Boggs’s posters, he could be thinking about all the money he could get by turning Joe in. Not that, with his protruding ribs and too-long hair, he looked much like he had back when his picture was taken. But Clinton could pose other threats. He could be running a prostitution ring even worse than Flights of Fantasy. And just because he was speaking kindly to Joe right now didn’t mean he wasn’t a racist.
“Look son, I know it ain’t easy to trust. But you look like you could use a proper feeding. And you’re the one with a gun. All I got’s Hopper here.” Clinton patted the dog’s head.
“Please, Joe,” Peter said.
If Clinton had a way to connect to the world, maybe they could find help for Devin. The pain patches had run out a few days ago, and Devin’s headaches kept intensifying. Two nights ago, Aria had started giving him sleeping pills, just to take the edge off. If Joe could get help... “Do you have electricity?”
“We do. And a warm bed, if you need a place for a night.”
“Let’s go.” Joe hoped he didn’t regret it.
***
By the time they rounded up the others and trekked toward Clinton’s small, metal-roofed ranch house, the rain came down in torrents, blowing sideways and pelting Joe’s exposed skin with the
