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Bishop walks past me. “Good morning to you, too.”

Pierce follows.

I glance at my truck again, then shut the door.

Freedom.

Finally.

“Shirt off,” Pierce says.

I look at him.

He points toward the couch. “Sit.”

“I’m fine.”

“You said that when you were bleeding all over the cabin.”

“I was fine then.”

“You had a stab wound.”

“Still alive.”

“Mostly because a woman watched YouTube and stitched you back together.”

My mouth twitches.

Bishop catches it. His eyes narrow.

I immediately stop and arrange my features into my normal resting murder face.

“Shirt off,” Pierce repeats.

I pull it over my head and sit.

Pierce examines my side.

I stare across the room while he works.

Bishop lights a cigarette near the fireplace.

“You know there’s a door,” I tell him.

“It’s my cabin.”

“So?”

“So I’ll smoke wherever the fuck I want.”

Pierce presses near the wound. Pain shoots through my side.

I tense.

“Still tender?”

“No.”