I studied the carefully made map that Ezra drew in our book. The perfect lines, the tidy handwriting. I felt so s.tupid even thinking it, but it felt like him, and it made me like him even more.
That thought—it was dangerous.
There could be no happy ending for me, but it was the one thing that maybe kept me sane, kept me present.
Ezra didn’t ask what I planned to do. He knew that he had done his part. I was unsure if he wanted to help with potential bloodshed or even know about it.
“Dominick isn’t well; if he needs reprise, he can find it in the forest under the shade,” I suggested.
“There aren’t traps there; it’s meant to be a place to confuse them, isolate them. It would be a good place to rest,” he agreed, peering at his small drawing over his massive crossed arms. I f.orced myself
