Someone’s always yelling at him. “Motherfuckers.” “Finn!” He’s on his knees and Vi is on the floor, shouting in his ear. “I’m here,” he says. “You need to run.” “I’m here. Where are they?” “I don’t know.” He shrugs out of his coat and wraps it around Vi’s shoulders. She groans at his touch. “Did you hear them leave the building?” “No.” She coughs and it’s a wet red sound. “But I think I might’ve—might’ve—” “Passed out?” “I think so. Maybe.” “You’re bleeding. How badly hurt are you, Vi?” “I don’t know.” “I need to get you up and into my office.” “No! We’ll be trapped then.” She’s right. You can’t barricade yourself in a room with only one exit. With a pebbled-glass door. “You can hide.” “No, they’ll find me again.” “Let’s use the phone.” “I want to go home,” she says, sounding about nine years old. “Oh Christ,” he begs, and tightens his hold on her. Then he gathers her up, unlocks his office door, and leads her inside.
