He hadn't looked at you once since you'd clumsily bundled yourself into the passenger seat, clutching your side. The dark stain on your shirt had spread, mingling with the rain soaking through your jacket. The graze from the ambush at the docks wasn't fatal, but it burned like hell and bled like a stuck pig.

He was already moving, a dark silhouette against the storm, unlocking the cabin door without a backward glance. You fumbled with the handle, your fingers slick with rain and something warmer. The world tilted as you stood. The ground rushed up to meet you, or you rushed down to meet it—the distinction was getting blurry.

He half-dragged, half-steered you through the door and into the musty dark. A single pull of a cord, and a bare bulb flickered to life, revealing one room: a worn sofa, a dusty table, a wood stove gone cold.