Red

RED

“What in the name Sam Hill was that?”

It was the first time Emily had dropped the expression in years. When times turned south, so too did her vocabulary—even her accent sounded stronger. But the shock of her slip was nothing compared to the sound reverberating through the facility, ringing in her ears.

You know what that was, said a voice in the back of her head. You know only too well.

Woods was next to Emily at the door to her supervisor’s office, surrounded by the five Crowners. As expected, their visitors had arrived in their ‘casual’ attire, a thrift store patchwork of summer shirts that made them look like unassuming RV drivers, only instead of prowling highways they coursed the corridors of America’s hospice system. Like Emily and Woods, they had all flinched and ducked at the gunshot, exchanging wide-eyed glances.

A second blast rung out. Someone started screaming for help. Mykel.

“The break room,” Woods said. She clutched her blouse, a gesture that undermined the fe