“Don’t shoot!” screamed a high-pitched voice. For a moment, Hawkins thought it might actually be DeWinter, but her voice sounded more husky than this. “It’s me!” The voice dripped desperation. Hawkins rubbed the sweat from his eyes. He held his fire, but kept the weapon aimed. It could be any number of people he didn’t want to shoot, but it could also be a crafty local. With the sweat gone, Hawkins saw the figure stumbling in the shadows at the end of the hallway. The last light of day filtering in through the hall’s open windows did little to illuminate things. We’re going to need a fire, part of Hawkins’s mind thought, while the rest tracked the intruder. “Me, who?” Bray asked. “Phil! It’s Phil!” Hawkins lowered the rifle as Bennett spilled into the light. His freckled face and brown hair were coated with mud. Bleeding scrapes covered his bare arms and legs. His eyes, wide with panic, darted around the hallway, hypervigilant. Joliet ran forward and caught the young man as he fell to his knees.
