Run

There is no decent place to stand in a massacre. Leonard Cohen

There was simply nothing in his experience that even compared with the thrill of killing to protect his family. In this moment, it was the purpose of his existence. He felt, possibly for the first time in his life, like a fucking man.

Usually, those thirty days in hell are as unreachable as if they had happened to another family. But sometimes, like tonight, she feels plugged in to the raw emotion of it all, a closed circuit, and if she doesn’t keep it at arm’s length, it still has the power to break her.

Jack, I’m just telling you, if it turns out. . .I want you to shoot me.” “Dee—” "I’m not kidding, not exaggerating, just telling you that I do not have it in me to handle that.” “You have a daughter, too. You don’t have the luxury not to handle shit.

Do you have any concept of what I’ve already sacrificed for you?

Knew she didn’t need another thing for the rest of her life except to be with him. There was such a peace that accompanied that knowledge.

There is no decent place to stand in a massacre.

Or,” Jack says, “maybe sometimes we just need to kill each other. Maybe that’s our perfect state of being.

They had learned to eat slowly, to stretch out each course with conversation or some other diversion.

I want you to be a fucking man. Do what you don’t do at home. Take care of your family. Be there. Physically. Emotionally—

Dee Colclough lay watching it all on a flatscreen from a ninth-floor hotel room ten minutes from home, a sheet twisted between her legs, the air-conditioning cool against the film of sweat on her skin. She looked over at Kiernan, said, “Even the anchors look scared.” Kiernan stubbed out his cigarette and blew a river of smoke at the television. “I got called up,” he said.

Have five seconds before we open fire.” Jack opened his door and stepped out into the highway.

Fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely.

What’s the demographic?” “Men. Women. Children.” “High-velocity GSWs?

But sometimes, like tonight, she feels plugged in to the raw emotion of it all, a closed circuit, and if she doesn't keep it at arm's length, it still has the power to break her.

For once, she knew what she had, the kind of man he was, even in the face of all this. Knew she didn’t need another thing for the rest of her life except to be with him. There was such a peace that accompanied that knowledge.

A soldier shoved him forward, said, “Stand right there and don’t fucking move.” “Why?” “We have to inspect you.” “For what?” “Shut the fuck up.

The kids crawled into bed and Dee unlocked the door and went back outside. Walked down to the road and stood at the crest of the pass. Thirty-five miles away, Grand Teton punctured the bottom curve of the sun and the nearer peaks were catching alpenglow. The snow and the rock the color of peach skin.