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Gitsh’s gloved right hand held a knife, much larger than Betty’s scalpel. He cut away at Amos’s suit, slicing it open at the chest and neck. Blood sloshed out of the cut suit as if someone had wrung out a soaked towel. It splattered on the floor and on Gitsh’s feet as he reached in to apply pressure. Marcus grabbed Amos’s legs.

“Clarence, get him on the table,” Marcus said. “His jugular is cut. Gitsh, keep pressure there. Margaret, get his helmet off!”

The men lifted Amos and set him on the already b.l.o.o.d.y trolley.

Margaret found herself standing, pulling off Amos’s helmet. Gitsh’s gloved hands stayed pressed down on Amos’s neck. Blood covered Amos’s face, matted his hair, pooled in his eyes.

His wide-open eyes.

She looked at Gitsh’s gloves. There was no blood oozing up from beneath the fingers.

Amos. Margaret’s thoughts snapped back into place.

“Do exactly what I say,” she ordered. “Remove your hands on a count of three, then be ready to reapply pressure as soon as I say go. One . . . two . . . three.”

Gitsh pulled his hands back a few inches, where they hovered, ready to be put back into use.

No blood flowed.

The scalpel had punched in just to the right of Amos’s windpipe, then slid outward, slicing open the whole right side of his neck.

She couldn’t check his pulse without taking off her gloves, but she didn’t need to.

Amos Braun was dead.

SMOOCHIES!

Chelsea turned the k.n.o.b ever so slowly. It didn’t make a sound. Neither did the door when she opened it. She crept into her parents’ room. Daddy was snoring. He always snored. Sometimes Mommy would go sleep on the couch, but not tonight. She must have been tired.

When Daddy snored, his mouth was always wide open. He looked silly. Mommy slept with her mouth closed.

Chelsea would have to fix that.

She tiptoed up to the bed, her pajama feet barely a whisper on the carpeting. Mommy wanted to make her go to the doctor? The doctor who poked her with stuff? The doctor who had the needles? Well, now Chelsea was in charge. Chauncey had said so. And Mommy wasn’t going to make her do anything anymore.

Chelsea stood at the edge of the bed, looking down at Mommy. Mommy had such a pretty face.

Chelsea reached out with her finger and thumb and slowly, tenderly, pinched Mommy’s nose shut. Not enough to hurt her, just enough to stop the air from going in. There were a few seconds where nothing happened, then Mommy’s mouth opened and she took in a sharp breath. Chelsea let go of Mommy’s nose and dropped to the floor, lying flat against the edge of the bed. If Mommy woke up, she’d have to look over the edge to see Chelsea down there.

Chelsea waited, but Mommy didn’t seem to move. It was so hard not to giggle.

Chelsea slowly got to her knees, then to her feet, real quiet, like it was slow motion in the movies. Her head rose up until her eyes peeked over the edge of the bed.

Mommy’s mouth was still open.

Her eyes were still closed.

She was breathing real slow.

Mommy was asleep.

Make her obey.

Chelsea nodded. She moved her head forward slowly. Chelsea waited three more seconds to see if Mommy would wake up.

One-one-thousand . . . two-one-thousand . . . three-one-thousand . . . Ready or not, Mommy, here I come.