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Three days. Tears welled up in Alena’s eyes and she sniffled once, then twice. She advanced cautiously this time, circling, circling, awaiting an opening. Then at her neck. She was taller than average for her age with a body that was lean, fit, and tanned. It took a second for Alena to recognize that it was Emmy–the girl prodigy who had taught Alena how to wrestle. I blinked a few times then realized that my mouth had been hanging open just slightly in an expression of incredulity. “Why don’t we find out right now?” she retorted. She felt the weight, took a few experimental cuts, and winced as the movements aggravated her injuries. She redressed and jabbed at me. But most vividly, the accusing, questioning look in Loni’s eyes as she crumpled on the beach, a bloody hole carved in her belly.
