Topher dropped to his knees and pushed down on it, trying to silence the final circle, but it was wet and his hand slipped off and into the pile of knives, slicing open his index finger. He popped it into his mouth and waited for someone to come and get him, for someone to haul him away. Would Nurse Smith kill him for this? Maybe. If so, it wouldn’t be direct. No hanging from the hospital walls or staking his head on a stick as a warning, no public beheading or crucifixion. Most likely she’d devise some kind of psychological torture, something that would end in suicide.
But what would it matter if there weren’t many of them left? The Mustache was gone. The Lips disappeared a few days before, and just that morning he saw Tre standing with Fatty outside Suite 101-113. Now it was just him, Z
