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tethered to a cable, and it’s trying desperately to yank him back from this. Reel him in. He wants to turn and toss the gun to Luna, or better yet, find a way to give these five clemency. He wishes Killian followed him down. Then he wishes Rigo were here—Rigo, who had to leave the city. Rigo who couldn’t, or wouldn’t, stay, who felt out of place, who one night just packed his things and left. Gods, it’d be nice to see him now. Rigo would know what was right and what was wrong.
    Lane always found the line between those two things blurry.
    His mind strays. Looking for justifications. Excuses. Reasons . And they aren’t far out of reach. The Empyrean has ruined the Heartland. And it has done so with the help of Heartlanders. Men like these who are complicit in the ruination. Who, even when given other options, choose to fight for the bigger side, the meaner dog. Who leaned into the shadow of the bully instead of stepping out into the light.
    And that pisses Lane off.
    His jaw sets tight, teeth grinding against teeth.
    Cael with the Blight. Rigo without his foot. Gwennie gone. Lane’s own father dead. His mother on the side of Old Scratch.
    He can do this.
    Maybe he wants to do this.
    He steps up. The chants grow loud. Luna is behind him, the small of her hand on his back, urging him to get on with it. He looks at her. The madness dances in her gaze like twisters. That scares him. What do his own eyes look like? It scares him enough to look at the pistol, set the dial back. Reduce the severity just a notch.
    Enough to kill. But not enough to knock their brains and hearts out of their bodies. Enough to shock the system, but not enough to spill blood.
    He knows the crowd wants blood. But the people will have to settle for just shy.
    Should I say something?
    He thinks he should, but he can’t conjure words. Not sure he could force them past his mouth even if he did manage to figure out what to say.
    Lane raises the pistol, fires it into the chest of the first man.
    The body tumbles back. The body shuddering, heels juddering against the cracked earth. Crying out from behind the hood. The others begin to wail. Their howls reach Lane’s ears, but he can barely hear them beyond the rushing of the blood behind everything, and part of him thinks, Do it slow, make it count, let them savor it , but then that strikes him as cruel and needless—and his people are already enjoying it, whooping and hooting, fists pumping in the air. This isn’t torture. Right? This is justice and mercy shaking hands.
    He shoots the other four in quick succession.
    They all drop. Some on their backs. Others on their sides.
    Twisting, writhing, dying. Not dying quickly, though, oh no, dying slowly because he didn’t set the dial high enough, did he? This isn’t mercy. This is torture. Lord and Lady, no, no, no. He sets the dial up higher, and the crowd is raging now, bigger, larger, a storm of dust and rage—
    He points the pistol at the first man again. Time to end it, really end it, pull the trigger and be a leader—
    But then the voice reaches his ears again, a cry that isn’t like the others, a cry of a woman, not a man, a cry he recognizes—
    No, no, that’s not possible. No .
    Everything seems to go slow, sideways.
    The pistol falls from his hand, lands in the dust.
    The balls of his feet carry him forward just far enough to drop down onto his own knees, reaching for the hood of the first one to fall. Pulling the hood off. The burlap obscuring the sun for just a moment—a shadow falling, but then light once more.
    Lane’s own mother stares up at him. Face twisting in pain. Eyes bulging. Mouth ringed with froth. He screams for a doctor. Someone, please, a doctor.
    “Mom!”

YOUNG HOBOS IN LOVE
    THE HOBO BOY IS IN LOVE.
    Or like. Or lust. Something.
    It’s a crush. The girl is his age, maybe a hair older. She’s a sneering, pouty, surly creature. Dirt-cheeked and sharp-teethed. She’s got the vibe of an animal trapped in a cage,