Michael and Ryan are with him when he comes to in the car. They stand just beyond the open door of the sedan. He’s bound at the wrists and ankles, he realizes.
“There you are,” Ryan says, noticing as Geoff tests the restraints, smiling at him in the dim light. His hair is wet. Matted with blood, Geoff realizes. There’s blood down the front of Michael’s shirt. Geoff can smell it on everything. He can hear cicadas.
The sight of the two men like this shouldn’t comfort him.
It does anyway.

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