They kept moving. They were at the door. A shot rang out. Both men ducked, and the bullet probably meant for Charlie’s leg got him in the back, piercing a lung and breaking a rib. He heard Ellis scream, but before he could look up, the night crashed in on him.2
When Charlie opened his eyes, he found himself sitting on the couch in the lounge room. And standing like a vision by the fire was Ellis.
“It’s good to be home,” he said, his clothes dry and his body surprisingly free of aches and pains. “Have the police gone?”
Ellis looked at him blankly. “The police? What are you talking about?”
Charlie furrowed his brow. “The police. The police that were out front not five minutes ago. Or at least earlier tonight.”
Ellis turned his back to the fire, clasping his hands behind him. “You know, it doesn’t matter how close to the fire I get, I can’t seem to shake the chill from my bones.”