Morgan dragged himself up the hill as fast as his body, and the muddy terrain, would allow. He’d expected the ground to still be soft, but he hadn’t expected it to still be quite such a mess. The clean, dry scrubs he’d been given at the hospital were soaked and stained up to his knees by now, and there was nothing he could do about it.

Maybe he should have just abandoned his paltry few possessions, but he didn’t want to have to steal them again. He’d get into enough trouble stealing clothes, and he didn’t think he’d be able to outrun the police this time.

With any luck, Titus and his friend would have backed off for the day. Even gangsters expected families to stick together. Hell, maybe gangsters had higher expectations in that area than anyone else. They’d never expect him to go back to his bolt hole, not tonight. They’d expect him to go back to Vegas with his dad.

Dad … now that hurt. Morgan hated that his father still had the power to wound him, but he had to admit he still felt the knife in his back. He couldn’t say he was surprised, but he couldn’t say he wasn’t, either.

The fact that his own father would sit there and see him, half-starved in a hospital bed, and tell him to go and die without costing anyone anything, made him want to curl up into a little ball and let the mud swallow him down.

But he couldn’t. For one thing, the mud wasn’t quite thick enough for that. For another, he still had Jamie’s baby inside of him.

Morgan might have proved himself to be the complete waste of space his father thought he was, but the baby deserved better. The baby, this little piece of Jamie, deserved a chance.

He made it to the house. Rather, he made it to what was left of the house. The sun had long since descended, and Morgan had only his phone for light, but he didn’t need much to see that the right side of the house had collapsed. He couldn’t smell any smoke, so it probably hadn’t been hit by lightning.

Oh. He walked over to the side of the house that had been affected, and now he saw what was missing. The tree that had been hit by lightning last night, the one whose branch had nearly killed Jamie, had fallen over. The soil had become too wet to stay in place, and it couldn’t hold the big old thing any longer.

He bowed his head. The tree hadn’t been of particular importance to him, and the house couldn’t be saved either. It still hurt to see them both destroyed like this.

Maybe it was a metaphor or something. Was the house him, or the tree, or maybe the mountain? Morgan shivered and shook his head at himself.

He didn’t have time to sit here and worry about metaphors and all that crap. He’d left it all behind in high school English class — something else his father insisted was a waste of time. He needed to salvage what he could and get going.

Thankfully, the part of the house he’d used most often was still intact. He slipped inside and found the candles he’d scrounged up during the storm, the ones he hadn’t used. Jamie was afraid of the fire, he remembered, even a fire so minor as flames on a candle. As he lit two of the candles, he could see the outline of where he and Jamie had lain last night. This was where they’d last made love.

Tears pricked at his eyes, but Morgan ignored them. He’d cry later, when he was safe someplace else. If his child, their child, was going to have any kind of a chance at survival, he needed to get as far away from Culvertown as he could.

He didn’t know where he would go, but maybe that was for the best. If he had no idea where he was going, then Collins and company couldn’t anticipate his moves and follow him there.

His mind turned again to Jamie. Surely the all-powerful Roscoes knew of some way to run Collins off for good. And the five hundred dollars, or a thousand dollars with interest, that Morgan owed was chump change to someone like Jamie. He wouldn’t even miss it.

But Morgan couldn’t bring these guys anywhere near Jamie. Jamie was pure and innocent. The only evil that had touched Jamie’s life was the fire and the darkness Morgan himself had brought into it.

No, Morgan had to get as far away as possible, for Jamie’s own protection. He loved Jamie, and he knew Jamie loved him, but he couldn’t stay.

Maybe there would be someone on the east coast who could help him. He couldn’t think of anyone, and New York was out on the grounds that it was too close to Princeton, where Collins’ crew were convinced he’d gone to school.

Florida might work, though. Roman Patrick hated Florida, so he had no business interests or contacts there. Morgan might be able to make his way there and start fresh. What he’d do for ID, since he didn’t want to use the Patrick name, was another story entirely.

Maybe he could start by switching the names? Just go by Pat Morgan?

He threw his few remaining possessions into his backpack as he considered his options. Florida was a good idea because it brought a low probability of having to deal with his father’s hatred, but he’d heard bad things about the school system.

He couldn’t remember what, because when he’d heard the statistic he’d figured the schools in any state were a low priority for him. Now he knew. Schools were an issue, they were an issue for him specifically, and he needed to think about it.

Maybe Delaware? It was a good place to raise a corporation. Would it be a good place to raise a child?

He paused. It might have been his frantic rush to pack, but he thought he’d heard something. He couldn’t have, though. Could he? There weren’t any cars up here, and they would have left ruts in the road if they’d driven in.

Unless, of course, they’d hiked in, just like Morgan. Would it have been worth his enemies’ while, though? It was a long hike just to kill someone, but tire tracks were traceable. They might well have done it, just as a forensic countermeasure.

He held his breath. He would ignore it. All he had to do was get out.

Screw anything else he’d left behind. If it wasn’t already in his backpack, he didn’t need it.

He put the bag on his shoulders and ran for the door. All he had to do was to get out and he could make his escape.

There would be no escape. Not for him. Not tonight.

Two massive figures blocked the exit. Titus wasn’t with them. Morgan couldn’t see his assailants’ faces up here in the dark, but they weren’t small enough to be Titus. Maybe he didn’t like to be around for the actual killing.

The candles didn’t give him enough light to see anything but outlines. He could see broad shoulders, men who were taller than he was, and two big baseball bats made from wood.

He held up his hands. “Look, guys,” he tried. His voice sounded strong to him. He couldn’t think how he managed to sound so confident. These guys weren’t there just to rough him up. They were here to murder him.

“Obviously there’s been some kind of mistake. None of this has to happen. You can just walk away, right now, and we can all forget this ever happened.”

He supposed he could take comfort from the fact that they hesitated. He didn’t expect them to, but they did. It meant he’d gotten through to them, at least a little bit. Unfortunately, they didn’t move out of the way, and there was no way Morgan could jump through the closed windows before they caught up to him.

They didn’t stop for long. They charged him, swinging their bats at his unprotected body.

Morgan dodged as adrenaline flooded his body. He probably wouldn’t get very far, but he had to at least try. He knocked into the shelf that held the candles, but he didn’t think much of it when he did.

He ducked out of the way of another swing, but not far enough. This one connected with his hip. If the guy wielding it had been a professional, he’d have just won the World Series.. Morgan collapsed with a grunt.

He curled up into a ball. All he could do was try to minimize the damage. He was flexible enough to block his belly with his legs, so that counted for something.

If he survived, the baby would be safe. He threw his arms up to try to block his head and his face. The rest of him would have to take its chances. Bones could heal, and organs could be stitched together.

Another bat crashed into his chest, knocking the wind out of him. Christ, that hurt. The light the candles provided seemed to get brighter, and he wondered if the force of the blow had somehow affected his vision. He didn’t know how that was supposed to work, exactly, but he’d heard about weird side effects from beatings.

Soon, it wouldn’t matter. His only hope — his baby’s only hope — was to play dead.

He thought about the last time he’d been on this floor. He and Jamie had been making love, and they’d slept together for the first time. That was a good image to bring with him into oblivion, or the afterlife, or whatever. Much better than pain and grief and two big, meaty guys trying to bash his head in.

Crack! He yelled as one of the two hit men slammed his weapon into Morgan’s shin. Another blow struck the arm curled over his poor head..

Morgan didn’t know these guys. He didn’t know why they should hate him as much as they clearly did; it was clear in the ferocity with which they hit his body. They’d probably been paid to do this, but they were also doing it because they hated him.

He bit down on his lip. If he could pretend he was unconscious, or even dead, he might survive.

The scent of burning wood reached his nostrils, just as pain shot through his shoulder. He bit through his lip in an attempt to pretend he’d passed out. Had the candles ignited something?

The smell brought last night to vivid memory. He’d been so scared of losing Jamie. And Jamie had come so close to dying anyway.

Had he seen the flames arcing toward him? Had he stayed unconscious so long not because of the head injury, but because of the remembered trauma? Morgan had no idea how these things worked. He wasn’t a neurologist, and he wasn’t a trauma specialist. He wasn’t anything.

Hell, he was about to be nothing more than a memory.

Jamie loved him, he had to believe that in these final moments, but there was no way Jamie would come up here again. No one would ever think to come up here and find him.

If the house wasn’t on fire, he’d just lie here until the desert scavengers cleaned his bones. They might not even wait for life to leave his body. He’d heard that happened out here.

Crack! This blow landed on his ankle. It was followed by one to his head, one that made the whole room lurch.

Once upon a time, Morgan had been a pampered baby. He’d had every possible advantage. He’d had the best bed, the best nannies, the best education.

If he was failing at something, his father saw to it that he got tutors or coaches, and the problem was solved. I need you to keep up with me, boy. How else are we going to take down the Roscoes?

And then he’d gotten to college, and The Roscoes became Jamie Roscoe, evolving from hated enemy to beautiful, desired rival.

Jamie had occupied a tremendous amount of real estate in Morgan’s closeted brain. He hadn’t even been mean. He’d just been Jamie, perfect and eternal.

Crack! Another blow to the ribs.

Roman hadn’t liked that Jamie and Morgan both wound up at University of Chicago. He’d tried to get Jamie thrown out, but it hadn’t worked. And then he’d told Morgan, You show that bitch who’s boss.

And Morgan knew there would be no chance for him with Jamie. So, he’d tried to get the attention he craved the other way.

Yes, the back wall was definitely on fire now. Morgan might be seeing two of them, but he couldn’t miss the smoke. Between his ribs and the smoke, it was getting harder to breathe in here.

He’d given his everything. Maybe coming back to the house had been a bad idea. Maybe he should have just stolen a car from the parking lot and made a run for it. He could have done a smash and grab someplace further up the line.

Now the only smash involved Morgan’s skull.

Crack! Pain shot through Morgan’s head as the other bat crashed down on it again. His hands fell to the ground, and his jaw went slack.

He could still see. All his senses still worked, but he couldn’t move. Dazed. Yes, dazed, that was the word. His whole body was limp, and he was dazed past the point where he could function.

In another life, he was in Florida, working at a marina. The work wasn’t easy, but he’d found a place to stay on an old houseboat. His son, Jamie, was three now, and in preschool. He was doing well, and looked just like his Roscoe dad. He loved to laugh, he swam like a little fish, and he played with other children at the marina all day. Morgan missed Jamie, but they were safe, and this was all they could ask for.

The two attackers paused. One of them coughed. “Think we should put a cap in him, just to be sure?”

They hadn’t spoken, not once through the whole assault, and this was how they broke their silence.

The other one considered. “Nah,” he said after a second. “Not worth it. Captain didn’t want anything that could be traced back to us. Not that anything’s going to be traceable, assuming anyone comes here in the first place.”

Morgan couldn’t argue with him. His brain screamed at his body to get up and do something, but it lay there like a lump.

“Let’s get out of here, then.” The first man ran for the door. The second grabbed Morgan’s backpack, and then he followed his buddy.

In another life still, Morgan had gone to Jamie. He’d decided to chance having Collins come to Jamie, and let the Roscoes try to protect them, which they did. They raised their beautiful son in comfort and happiness in Culvertown.

He grew up strong, and happy, and when other children came along afterward, he was an amazing big brother. Morgan and Jamie grew old together, counting the wrinkles as badges of honor. They died in their sleep, on the same night, in the same bed, at 98 years young.

Morgan knew he should be panicking. He’d done everything in his power, and it wasn’t enough. He was going to die here, and at this point, his only hope was that he would lose consciousness before he burned.

He knew, thanks to Jamie, how much that hurt. He didn’t need to have a firsthand experience, thank you very much.

Maybe his ability to panic was impaired by the head injury? That seemed likely. It seemed like a kindness, too. He wasn’t going to be able to do anything to alleviate that panic, or to save himself, so it was good that he was able to face the end with calm and dignity.

As if there was any dignity to be found in lying on a dirty floor with his head bashed in, bleeding, waiting to burn.

He wished he could have had more time with Jamie. But then again, he was glad Jamie hadn’t been caught up in this mess. He didn’t need Jamie’s death on his conscience.

Maybe Morgan should have found some woman. He could have probably found a lesbian in the same situation, from the same class. They could have come to an arrangement. He wouldn’t have found love with Jamie, but he also wouldn’t be burning alive.

He’d believed, when he honored his father’s ultimatum, that he could find a way to survive on his own. Clearly, he’d been wrong. He hadn’t planned for Roman to sabotage any opportunities that might have come his way, but he should have.

And in the end, he couldn’t even sell drugs to get by, could he? It hadn’t been because he was too “good” or too “pure.” It had been because he was too stupid.

He’d gotten himself mugged. That was all. Otherwise he’d be home free, and able to start over. His dreams weren’t particularly grandiose. He just wanted to be able to live his life.

Or to grow old with the man he loved, in peace, with their children.

Well. At least he could say he’d done everything he could. He closed his eyes and let the darkness overtake him. If there was any kindness in the world, it would be quick.