Beneath Blain’s hand, Trin reels as fresh waves of pain wash over him. Gone, he thinks.
Gone.
* * * *
If it isn’t for his brother, Trin would probably stay in the same spot until nightfall came, staring out into the empty street and wishing fervently he hadn’t turned away that last kiss. Now he has nothing to show that the gunner was even his for those two brief nights, nothing except the sore spot in his chest where his heart has shriveled like a dried prune. If it isn’t for Blain, he might never move again.
But his brother takes him by the arm, leads him across the bright junkyard to the kitchen where busy chore girls throw furtive glances their way. His hand is steady on Trin’s back as they climb the stairs. When Trin pauses outside the closed door to his room, Blain shakes his head
