For a moment he sits there, silent, staring at the gun. Was it the one the boy used? Trin wonders. Or was that the one in Gerrick’s lap? Before he can think through what it is he means to do, he slips from the windowsill and crosses the room, his bare feet imperceptible on the hardwood floor. At Gerrick’s side he falls to his knees, the gunner’s clothing beneath him. “Gerrick,” he sighs.
The gunner looks at him. The gun drops from his hands and then Trin’s in his arms, strong arms like a tourniquet wrapped tightly around him. “I’m not like him,” Trin whispers into the gunner’s shoulder. His own arms snake around Gerrick’s waist as large hands cup his face, forcing him to look into Gerrick’s eyes. Light eyes, like the sand. “I’m not,” Trin swears, “I promise. I know you have to leave, you’
