When Gerrick comes into the room, Trin is sitting on the windowsill, staring out at the junkyard below. Chrome and metal gleam in the morning sun and above the palisade, the sky is already the washed out color of the gunner’s jeans. Trin’s been thinking about what he overheard downstairs. One word stands stark in his mind—bullet.
Out in the wastelands, Gerrick wears a pair of revolvers slung low on his hips…Trin saw them when he rode in. His saddlebags are filled with gunpowder, wrapped in little twists of paper like party favors. He’s the fastest draw in all the outposts, shoots with a deadly aim, both hands equally sharp. He’s a gunner, for Christ’s sake. He makes a living from bullets and pistols. He kills.
Devlars, Trin assures himself. He looks up as Gerrick enters, a little surpri
