A megaphone clicked on.

“This is the Sheriff’s Department,” a voice boomed. “Step out with your hands up.”

Mark looked toward the light, then down at me.

His face was pale.

He gripped the poker tighter.

He looked at the small fire that was starting to catch again on a different pile of straw.

He had to make a choice.

He looked at the light, then back at me.

Suddenly, his phone in his pocket began to ring, its bright screen glowing through his wet trousers.

The caller ID lit up the dark.

It was Dr. Vale.

Mark stared at the glowing phone, his hand freezing in mid-air.

He swore under his breath and grabbed my upper arm.

His grip was like a steel vise, bruising my skin through my jacket.

“In the house,” he hissed, shoving me toward the heavy wooden door that led to the utility room.

The blue and red lights from the driveway swept across the dirty glass windows of the barn.

I stumbled, my boots slipping on the wet straw, but he hauled me upright.