Everyone was on edge.
Even Nate joked less.
The night before the run, Georgia came over with takeout and a stack of bridal magazines her mother had bought despite us not choosing a season, a venue, or even whether we wanted a big wedding.
She spread them across my table.
“Don’t panic,” she said. “This is recreational.”
“Looks like homework.”
“Romantic homework.”
“That’s worse.”
She laughed and kissed me.
Warm.
Nice.
I kissed her back.
I looked at the ring on her finger and told myself I had done the right thing.
I was still telling myself that when the shooting started three days later.
The run went bad near the border.
Not bad like a flat tire or a checkpoint or a deal that needed more money to smooth over.
Bad like headlights cutting across dirt.
Bad like the first shot cracking through the dark before anyone had time to curse.
Bad like a brother going down beside me.
Bad like Nate shouting my name.
Everything turned white and red and dust.
Gunfire ripped open the night. Bikes scattered. Men dove for cover. Someone screamed. Someone returned fire. The air filled with the sharp stink of cordite, burned rubber, and blood.
I remember dragging one of ours behind a truck.
I remember Nate firing from the left side, face pale under the grime.
I remember thinking, Get everyone out.
Not heroic.
Practical.
The kind of thought a man had when fear had no time to dress itself up.
Then something hit me.
Not like movies.
