Her child has already taken its cue. It stands on four legs beside the unmoving body of its mother, looking back and forth, growling mournfully, pitifully, now sniffing at the savage wound, licking at it. Ben can’t stand to watch. He turns his head, only to see Germaine, sprawled on her back hardly an arm’s length away. Her chest is drenched in blood and gore, concentrated in dark patches around the half-dozen or so bullet holes punctuating her blouse.