Cane's POV
The quiet after the storm was worse than the noise.
We sat around the cabin, the morning after the dock job. The kids had a bright, jumpy energy. Josh re-told the story of the car for the tenth time, his hands painting pictures in the air. Jolina beamed, polishing the small knife Henry had given her. My little boy sat in my lap, playing with a carved wooden fox, safe in a bubble of our making.
We'd done it. We'd stung him. Bad.
But the look in Steph's eyes across the room told me she felt it too. The other shoe. It was hanging in the air, waiting to drop. Armstrong wasn't a man who got stung and walked away. He got stung and came back with a flamethrower.
My body felt the strange mix of triumph and dread. My legs were stronger. I could walk from the hearth to the door without a hand. I could lift my son over my head and make him squeal. These were small, massive victories. But when I closed my fist, it still trembled. The ghost of the sick man was still in the room.
