Machinegun fire from the street below, and I drop, surrounded by broken glass.
Michael is still crying. I stand to comfort him but cannot support my own weight, riddled with bullets as I am. I fall back down to the floor.
The door bursts open. One of the men from downstairs is standing there, his snout squashed flat against the visor of his helmet.
“There’s a war on”, he says, looking directly at me. As though it’s my fault.
If I had breath left in my lungs I would call for Sophie. She would know how to deal with this.
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