I return. The shooter is still there.

The dog is obsessed with the throw rug. Scratches it. Moves it. Sits and whines.

He wades through flame, clothes burning, skin unharmed.

“You’re brave to contact them.”

“Master?” she gasps.

He loops back and is at the controls before she yells.

They fought like lions roaring war cries.

“Enough?” he taunts.