The world is a roar of orange and a suffocating blanket of gray. The floorboards beneath us groan, a long, terminal sound of wood surrendering to heat.

Santino’s body collapses in front of me. It’s a heavy weight against mine, his blood warm and sticky where it seeps through my tank top and onto my skin. I look up at his father, the man who just fired the shot, expecting to see a face of triumph. Instead, I see a mask of cold, clinical indifference. He looks at his own son as if he is ...