The corridor is empty but for the fallen. I don't look down, don't have time to worry about those who won't rise again. I hurtle down the passageway, searching for my calm, but only finding rage.
It will do.
Two boys emerge from the dining room. I don't hesitate or pause, attacking them both. They go down in sprays of blood, my feet and hands reducing them to broken and unconscious masses on the floor. Three more erupt from another doorway up ahead and spot me. One of them knows me, as I know him. The skinny little kid, the one I saved from a beating. He points.
"There she is!" He shoves the one next to him. "Get her!"
This is my fault then. This invasion of Beckett's space, the destruction of his home, and Poppy's. My rage is replaced by despair, but it doesn't seem to matter. My body
