He sets the toys carefully aside on the floor, revealing the shotgun hidden beneath them. His fingerprints paint red smudges as he brushes the doll’s synthetic curls and remembers the little girl who called her baby.
His shirt sticks to his wound. He’s tired from the walk but numb to the pain. It’s probably too late for him — definitely too late for her. It’s not too late to make a scene, to ensure their senseless deaths aren’t hidden halfway through the local news.
The wagon wheels creaking behind him, he limps into the assembly.
Let them see what they missed.
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