He sat down and was surprised when Myers lifted her head, opened her eyes, and

looked at him. “I know you have good reason to hate her,” she said.

 

Rogers glanced at her, held her gaze steady for a few protracted moments, and

then looked away, staring at the gap between his feet.

 

She glanced over at Quentin. “I wouldn’t trust him.” “I don’t trust anyone,”

said Rogers, looking at her so fiercely that she changed color and looked down.

“What are you going to do with me?” “I told you. Jericho gets here, you’re

free.” “I saw what you did to those men at the bar. I don’t think that’s the

first time you’ve killed someone.” He looked up at her. “I was created to kill.

It’s really the only reason for my existence.” “I’m not sure I’ve ever heard

anything more awful than that.” He said nothing to this because he had nothing

to add. “Those scars? What did they do to you?” “The scars made me strong.” He

tapped his head. “But this is what made me a killer.” Myers started to say

something, but Rogers held up a hand. “No more talk.” Time ticked away.

 

Night passed to morning.

 

Myers fell asleep again.

 

Quentin had never awoken, perhaps safe in the belief that his treacherous

actions would allow for his survival.

 

Rogers just stared at the floor.