He came to my clinic at midnight with a bullet in his shoulder and a horse bleeding out in the trailer.
I knew his face. I knew his last name. I grew up at the same table, in the same house, under the same flag.
I hid him anyway. I stitched him anyway. And now the people who put that bullet there know exactly who I am.
He says there's a place in the canyon his family won't cross. He says we can fix it up. He says he can give me a life where I don't have to lie about who I was.
Then they find us. He walks out the gate alone. He doesn't come back for eleven hours.
I sit on the porch with a rifle across my knees and count the minutes. When he finally walks up the road, I have already decided everything that matters.
