The bullet hits him high in one shoulder, slamming him back and into the milk-crate bookcase. Books tumble and thump to the floor around him, making more noise than the sound of the silenced pistol.

Leland's eyes are as wide and shocked as his own must be. The pain's astonishing, incredible; there can't possibly be enough room inside him for all of it. Pulsing out from the sledgehammer blow of the impact in slow liquid waves, any moment now it'll overflow and spill out of him.

Like all that blood, softly pattering down from somewhere.

Oh, Andrew realizes, as very far away he feels himself slide to the floor. Oh, hey.

We've been here before, haven't we.