“Come on, Muse, let’s get you up.”
   “I want to move,” I said, still on the floor. “I don’t like this house any more.”
   Tim hugged me against him. “We’ll see what we can do, Muse. Come on, let’s get you up.”
   With his arm around my shoulders he helped me to my feet. My knees didn’t want to work.
   “She all right?” John called. “She hit?”
   “She’s good,” Tim answered. “You need help?”
   “Can you call it in?”
   “Got it,” Tim said, and pulled his cell phone out of his pocket.
   Tim called 911, reported shots fired, one man down and gave our address.
   On the floor, two feet from us, But Bill, the guy who tried to shoot me, writhed like a snake with a broken back. His feet made funny scraping sounds as he pulled up one, then the other before he straightened them, like he was swimming, or trying to crawl.
   “You sure you’re okay?” Tim asked. “Talk to me, babe.”
   “I want to move,” I repeated. “I don’t want to live here anymore.”
   Tim chuckled. “You know, I can understand that. We’ll see what we can do. Let’s get you in a chair.”
   He hooked a chair from the kitchen table with his boot, slid it over and eased me into it.
   “I’m right here, babe. You’re safe. It’s over.”
   I heard the rattle of handcuffs and peeked around Tim to see John snap them into place on Chris’s wrists. All this time Chris was silent, not a word, not one I heard anyway. He looked at the wall.