The gun goes off. I fall.

His hands skim my bare arms. “Just bounce a little when you walk,” he says, kissing my forehead, “and pretend you’re afraid of their guns” —another kiss between my eyebrows— “and act like the shrinking violet you could never be ”—a kiss on my cheek— “and you’ll be fine.

Ignore them. They don't know what it is to make a difficult decision." "You wouldn't have done it, I bet." "That is only because I have been taught to be cautious when I don't know all the information, and you have been taught that risks can produce great rewards.

That night we push our cots just a little closer together, and look into each other's eyes in the moments before we fall asleep. When he finally drifts off, our fingers are twisted together in the space between the beds. I smile a little, and let myself go.

I have to face the fear. I have to take control of the situation and find a way to make it less frightening.

I feel empty, not because of sadness, but because of relief, all the tension flowing out of me.

Don't pretend", I say Breathily. "You know I'm not. I'm not ugly, but I am certainly not pretty." "Fine. You're not pretty. So?" He kisses my cheek. "I like how you look. You're deadly smart. You're brave.