Dylan looked around the cold, vacant room and rotated his aching shoulder. He’d slept with his arm pinned beneath him and had cut off the circulation to both. Turning onto his back, he squeezed his arm all the way down, trying to bring it back to life. It was time to go in search of his photographer. Jim was sitting on the floor in the empty front room, out of the line-of-sight from the outside, his back to the wall, a game of solitaire set out in front of him. The gun was on his right. Dylan was proud of him. “Better light in here,” Jim said quietly, answering the question before it was asked. He nodded toward the empty window sill and the broken glass beneath it. “This place has seen better days,” Dylan whispered, avoiding chunks of concrete as he made his way over, dust clinging to his shoes. The house had clearly been abandoned. Or so he thought. More likely, it had been stripped.
