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full ripeness and the rain washing them and making their aroma lighter. I love the hardness of my rifle against my side. Today, my marker will hit its target.
    Although my sandals slow me down and create a slop-slop noise, I keep them on my feet. They are part of my plan to get a clean shot at Runner. The swamp is near and the trees begin to change from gnarled to slender and smooth. One of the thickest of them is standing close to the swamp’s edge and I slow my run, slither, zigzag across the mud and fall close to the large tree’s trunk. I rip out a few strands of my hair, stick them to the cracks in the bark, and make sure the new membrane is tightly sealing my rifle’s muzzle — making my weapon water-proof.
    I lie down and run my hands over the mud, then stand, just to fall over again. I leave one sandal at the edge of the swamp, take one large step forward and begin to sink. Before the muck can suck in my leg, I bend my upper body flat against the surface and push into the swamp. The heavy mud is brushing my arm while I propel myself forward. My other arm presses the rifle against my side. After a few strokes, I shake off my other sandal, then swim a semi-circle to reach the edge far from where I entered the water. I pull myself up a fallen tree, grab a handful of muck and rub it into my face, my hands, wrists, and feet. Then I scale the nearest upright tree, arranging twigs and leaves so that the foliage provides a thick cover.
    I can barely keep my heartbeat calm. The view is wonderfully dramatic. Sliding tracks of poor Micka falling, bonking her head on a tree, and oh, look at this! — the impact was so hard, it ripped a few strands of her orange hair out. Oh no, she must have been knocked half-unconscious what with that sliding and slipping dangerously close to the swamp’s edge. Her sandal — why did she lose her sandal in the muck? Is that a footprint leading into the swamp? Did she…is that her sandal floating in the water?  
    I have to keep myself from grinning. White teeth flashing in muck-covered face wouldn’t do now. It might be cruel, but there’s no other way to trick Runner into carelessness.  
    I can’t hear him, but I know he must be very close. The few minutes head start weren’t all that much. When the tiny hairs on the back of my neck begin to raise, he steps into view like a large cat stepping out of the shadows. He, too, doesn’t wear his ghillie.  
    Are you feeling superior today, my friend?
    I take aim and watch. Unmoving, he takes in the scene for a moment, then creeps toward the tree, centimetre by centimetre, and brushes the bark with my hair stuck to it. He stands, his rifle sagging a fraction and that is when I know I got him. I see his gaze sweeping to my sandal stuck in the mud, then the one floating like a dead leaf on the murky surface.
    When he cocks his head, I know he finds the scene suspicious. I put the crosshairs right over his heart and squeeze the trigger.  
    Click . Plop .
    He freezes, doubles over, and falls face down into the mud. He doesn’t move. Shit! Shitshitshit! I scramble down the tree, drop my rifle, and run up to him. I grab his shoulder and yank hard in an attempt to turn him around so he doesn’t suffocate. I barely register the flash of metal.
    His knife is at my throat.
    I snort. ‘Sorry to break the news, but you are dead.’
    ‘I’ve sucked up bullets before,’ he hisses. ‘As long as there’s life in me, I use it to kill my enemy.’
    I point at the green paint blurred with mud. ‘Here. Shot through the heart.’
    ‘What if my heart is on the other side? There are people who have their heart on the right side.’
    ‘In that case, I would tell you I don’t give a shit just before I chop off your balls.’ I nod down to where my knife rests against his crotch. ‘You are a crappy loser.’ I let go of him and stomp away.
    ‘Micka, I’m being serious. A single bullet doesn’t necessarily kill. What happens when you are shot? Will