“Well, it does matter, and you don’t really know me enough to like me,” she shoots back, and she knows she’s full of shit because she liked him plenty too off just one afternoon of drinking and palling around.

She stands up, just to pace, wounded leg or not. The adrenaline pounding through her has to go somewhere, one way or another.

“What’s the goal, anyway? Not shoot people? How does that make anything right?”