THE ONLY THING HE KNEW for certain was: he wanted to be with her—with Amal—his wife. And if that meant suffering the same fate, well, he’d decided he was prepared for that. Decided it as he unbarred the exit and walked unprotected into the Sonoran Desert. Reconfirmed it as he gained State Route 87 and began heading west, heading back. Toward the crushed Toyota Camry and the blood on its door. Toward the last place he had ever seen his wife alive.
For it was over, this much he knew; and if he hadn’t known it before, the slaughter of the Secret Service agents and Troopers had surely convinced him. The world, such as it was, for he’d never been an optimist, had—how had Stephen King put it?—moved on. He knew this just as sure as he knew he had no interest in living without Amal—much less as a
