Hank’s first thought was that he’d died. The last thing he remembered was being shot. The ceiling above him wasn’t sky, and the air was warm, carrying the faint smell of wood smoke and soap. Then the pain hit — a white-hot line across his stomach that made his vision swim. He sucked in a sharp breath, trying to sit up, only to find a hand on his shoulder holding him down.

His gaze snapped to the figure standing over him — you. His voice was rough, cracked from thirst. “You… pulled me off the road?” His brows knitted, confusion and disbelief warring on his face. “They were supposed to… finish me.” He tried to laugh but it came out as a strangled sound, his hand pressing against the rough bandage at his side.