"Move!" he shouts. “Run for the trees!”
We scramble toward the edge of the roof as more shots ring out. The garage is about a ten-foot drop to the ground, manageable if we're careful.
I swing my legs over the edge, preparing to drop, when the window behind us explodes outward in a shower of glass and wood.
Damon grunts, stumbling.
"Are you hit?"
"I'm fine. Go!"
But I can see blood on his left arm, dark against his shirt. A piece of glass from the explosion caught him, leaving a gash that's bleeding freely.
"You're hurt."
"Move!"
I drop from the roof, landing hard on the grass, my knees buckling. Damon follows a second later, landing with more control despite his injury.
"The trees," he says, grabbing my hand. "Run! Don’t look back! Keep running no matter what!"
We sprint across the open ground between the garage and the forest. Behind us, I can hear more windows breaking, more shouting. Someone's figured out which way we went.
The trees close around us as the first shots ring out from the house. Bark explodes from a pine tree inches from my head.
"This way," Damon says, pulling me deeper into the woods.
We run through the forest, branches catching at our clothes, roots trying to trip us. I can hear pursuit behind us, at least three men, maybe more, crashing through the undergrowth.
"There!" someone shouts. "I see them!"
More gunfire. A bullet whines past my ear.
Damon suddenly changes direction, pulling me down a steep slope toward what sounds like running water. A creek, narrow but deep enough to hide our tracks.
"In the water," he says. "Follow the current downstream."
The water is shockingly cold, soaking through my shoes immediately. But it muffles our movement, and the sound of the current will help mask any noise we make.
We wade downstream for what feels like hours but is probably only twenty minutes. The gunfire behind us fades, then stops altogether. Either they've given up, or they've spread out to cover more ground.
"There," Damon says, pointing to a cluster of large rocks that form a kind of natural shelter. "We can rest for a bit."
We climb out of the creek and collapse behind the rocks. For the first time since this started, I get a good look at Damon's arm.
The cut is about four inches long, running from his elbow toward his wrist. It's bleeding steadily but doesn't look too deep.
"Let me see that," I say.
"It's nothing."
"It's not nothing. You're bleeding all over the place."
I tear a strip of fabric from the bottom of my shirt and move closer to him. "Hold still."
"Viviana—"
"I told you to be still."
