The bodies fall like leaves.

Rasp can smell cordite and powder over the sweet, distant blossoms. The orchard is an embarrassment of colours, a sensory wonderland. The gunsmoke is a blot of ink on watercolour. Like him.

Ketchum is leaning against a tree, taking slow, ragged breaths. Rasp stands over him, brushes the hair out of his eyes. “How you feelin’, young’un?” he asks.

Ketchum swallows. “Like I been shot.”

“You gone tell me where Fulton went?”


Rasp nods, pulls Ketchum’s jacket a little tighter. “Sweet dreams, kid.”

The silence gets deep. All he can hear is a rustling.


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