It was a flesh wound, unimportant, and he would not allow it to distract him from what now needed to be done. Glimmers of red sky were filtering through the growing storm and into the bedroom behind him while he rummaged, setting glowing fingers to work on the sheets of the bed, like a spell being cast. From the closet he took a pistol, three clips, night vision specs—he couldn’t use his glasses and the night specs at the same time, but in the dark of the storm, he’d be better off with the night goggles than his regular lenses—a canteen of water, and a spare roll of bandages. That was all. His knife was already on him, tucked into his belt, its usual living space. This is the last time, he thought, the last time you’ll use these things. He went to the door, hesitated, then backtracked and picked up the tin of cinnamon from the floor. It sat in his hand for a long moment, then was moved into his pocket. He wanted his Voltaire II…Allie. She always had a way of calming him. He went to the bedroom again and this time the absence of Senna that he felt there was like a leaden grip squeezing his neck.
