Not Sharr Morrigan, and not one of my friends. A stranger. A stranger with a gun. I know she is close behind me – close enough to press the barrel against my head. I consider whipping around; maybe I could grab the pistol, wrestle her away, make her shot burst into the trees . . . ‘Don’t even think about it, my friend,’ she says. ‘My finger’s on the trigger. One false move, and –’ ‘All right,’ I say. ‘I get it.’ I hear her step away, but I don’t doubt the pistol is still aimed in my direction. I suck in a deep breath, tense my muscles and prepare to leap sideways. If I heard the crack of a bullet, could I jerk away in time? No, that’s impossible. ‘On the count of three,’ she says, ‘I want you to turn round, all slowly like. No sudden movements.’ If it were night, I could melt into the blackness. But the harsh light of noon shines above the trees, and my proclivity is dead to me.
