"So what?" I ask. "It's not like someone asks who you are every day. How bad do you really need ID?"

Morgan looks back from the driver's seat. "Spoken like a teenager. Without ID there are no credit cards, no flights, you can't get anything online, you can't sign up for anything, the list goes on. Any cop ever questions you, there's a chance you'll get arrested. In jail, they'll use fingerprints to start putting together who you are. Eventually, they figure it out. There's only so much you can pay for with cash, and Jack doesn't have any..."

Brakes squeal; I slide forward. Morgan makes a U-turn, then slams down the accelerator; the smell of burning rubber wafts into the cabin.

Streetlights shine on her face in quickening pulses. Between the night and sudden flashes of light, color drains from our world, and Morgan's skin appears porcelain, eyebrows black strokes of a calligrapher's brush, ebony lips pressed into a tight, flat line.

The undercarriage scrapes as we pull into our motel parking lot; Morgan speeds into a parking space so quickly that I flinch, fearing she'll go straight through the building.

"Stay here," she says.

I wait as she storms to the room. Moments later, she returns, folded sheet of paper in one hand.

"Jack stole my stash." Morgan climbs into the driver's seat. The paper is unfolded; it is yellow tinted, a page from the phone book. Her hand clenches the wheel, bending the page. "Jack stole my goddamn stash."

There's a pause, punctuated only by her deep breathing.

"What now?" I ask. This seems to break her reverie.

"Bus station is the only thing that makes sense. We'll catch him there." She leans down, arm reaching below the seat. Moments later, there's a snubnosed revolver in her hand. She puts this in her purse.

"Hello," I cough out. "You keep a spare, or what?"

Morgan says nothing, only starts the car. She reaches out to close her door as she backs up; the tires give a little yelp as her foot hits the floor.

"How do you know where Jack is?"

China hands flex on the wheel. "He's only got cash. He doesn't have a picture ID, so he can't fly. He'll want to get as far away from me as he can, and that means the bus station. There's a Greyhound a few miles from the hospital."

We twist through the streets, behind shopping centers and warehouses. Some small creature rests atop a trash bin—cat, possum or raccoon—but runs scurrying as we rush past.

Within minutes, we're parking in the lot of a Greyhound bus station. The digital display on the dash says 4:23 AM, but even still, bodies litter the exterior of the building. Most sprawl out across the cement like casualties after a battle, with heads on backpacks and faces covered by jackets. At the far corner of the building, a set of eyes gleam behind a stream of cigarette smoke.

"You're going to have to help me," Morgan says. "Go check in the lobby, I'm going to circle the building. If you see him, just come find me." She puts the purse's strap over her shoulder. "Come on."

I blink twice. A dull ache returns to my leg; the morphine is fading fast, and I feel strangely hollow. My blood chafes through raw veins.

I sit at the edge of the car seat and face the concrete. One crutch gains a grip on the parking lot, then the other. I wobble upright, catching myself on their aluminum legs. Fighting back nausea, I take a step with my good leg, then catch myself with the crutches.

The pain in my knee is fresh, cleaner and brighter than before, from new incisions. However, the cast is a marvel, and puts the weight of my mangled leg on my hip. The black plastic holds me in a slightly crooked position, and the leg hangs a few inches from the ground when I'm standing.

Morgan is already behind the building by the time I hobble to the bus station's front office. I struggle to pull open the heavy Plexiglas door, getting one crutch inside to prop it open, then climbing the rest of the way through. The sweat that coats me is cold on clammy skin.

The bus station is mostly deserted. Two flat screen televisions are mounted over the front desk, where an older black man in a Greyhound shirt reads a magazine. Aside from him, I'm alone.

Relieved, I push my way outside, searching for Morgan. My palms are sweaty on the gray foam grips of the crutches. The click, stomp, clack of my shambling tripod momentum takes me around the bus station, past a woman in green flannel and her kid.

I circle the building: there's no sign of Morgan or Jack.

Then I hear a faint sound, at the edges of my perception. A warble, something that doesn't fit.

It's coming from inside. I didn't see anyone in the lobby, though, and—the restrooms. They open from outside; the men's room is around the corner. I shuffle the few feet to the bathroom entrance and push my way inside, entering sideways and using my body to wedge open the door.

Morgan's back is turned, and I follow the crook in her elbow to the revolver she holds. The trajectory of the barrel leads across the bathroom to Jack, who stands with his hands in the air. A black duffel bag rests at his feet.

"Shoot him," I say. "Do us all a favor."

As though clockwork, all eyes flit to me for a moment, then resume their positions.

"You can't keep me under your thumb like this," Jack says, addressing Morgan. "I can't be a hostage. You and Banks are making a mockery of the whole ghost concept. You've got more money, you've got a new pet, just let me go."

"Jack, you know what I can do to you, don't you?" Morgan asks. "Is that what you want?"

"It's probably in this bag right now," Jack counters. "One more reason not to give it to you."

"Would you rather be shot?" she asks. "Weigh your options."

"Get it over with, then," Jack says, voice louder. "Shoot me, or put me in prison, just stop holding me prisoner."

Morgan grunts, then turns to me. "Hold this," she says. "The safety is off. Pull the trigger if he tries anything."

And she hands me the gun—I've never held one. It's cold, and much heavier than I thought. I rest my wrist across the top of the crutch, so the little metal cross at the tip of the barrel lines up with Jack's chest. I keep my finger off the trigger, because that feels electric when I touch it, almost burns my finger.

Morgan walks the five feet across the bathroom tile to Jack, then bends down to pick up the duffel bag.

When she bends down, Jack squats, grabbing the bag with both hands and ramming into Morgan with his shoulders—she falls to the floor. Jack charges me, bag of money clutched to his chest.

The moment he begins the motion, my hand clenches reflexively, but my finger hits the guard and not the trigger. I reposition, squeeze again; still nothing—it takes more force. I squeeze harder, and there's a tremendous pop.

He's only a foot away by the time I manage to fire. It's so loud I can practically see the sound; my vision goes white. Morgan shrieks as Jack spins, groaning and dropping the bag.

A white tile spritzed with a mist of Jack's blood falls from the bathroom wall and shatters on the floor.

"Are you fucking kidding me?" Jack bellows, left arm grabbing his right, twisting violently. He lets out a long hiss, some pressurized tank ruptured.

The gun trembles in my grip. Morgan kicks the bag behind me; it slides across the tile floor. Her arm extends, followed by the hot breath of her sigh, then her hand is resting on top of the revolver. The whole move is tired, but diplomatic. "It's okay, Sean," she whispers. It barely registers through the ringing in my ears. "Sean, it's okay. Give me the gun."

My fingers don't want to come unclenched. Her left hand joins her right, warmth of them circling the weapon, melting my resistance. Morgan tugs; I relent, liquefied. The gunmetal sticks to my skin as she draws it away.

"Listen to me," she says, voice calm. "We need to get out of here right now. Someone probably heard that, and the police are probably on their way. Just follow me."

Jack growls low, voice hysterical as his rumbling moan of pain tangles itself into a tight whimper. With his left arm, he pulls the jacket from his right side. Blood spills down to the tiles, drooling from the open mouth of his sleeve, splattered behind him as it swings to the side.

He looks into the bathroom mirror; we watch his arm, transfixed. The wound appears small, only a bloody hole the size of a pencil eraser clean through his right bicep.

I shot him, I realize.

And just two weeks ago, I was such a good kid.

"Come on, everyone, let's go," Morgan calls. Always composed. Always, all ways.

Jack pulls the jacket back up over his wound. With the dark material covering him, it's not easy to tell he's been shot. I notice he bundles the end of the sleeve where his hand should come out, to keep the blood trapped inside.

And then all three of us are leaving the bathroom like nothing happened. Jack is rigid, face paling as he struggles to control himself. I hobble behind him, crutches suddenly heavier, as the shock leaves me weak. Morgan leads.

The bodies strewn across the bus station stare up at us with gleaming eyes, animals lying in cover. Far more of the softly glowing orbs focus on us than before, as our ruckus attracted attention.

When we get to the car, she hands me the duffel bag. I toss it in, then stretch out across the back seat. Jack curses and moans his way into the front.

"I can't believe you shot me," he mutters darkly.

I can't either, honestly. I do hate this man, but, damn. Still, Sean Reilly is dead—who's to say what the new me can and can't do?