As the woman's words settled into the rain-soaked air between them, Don found himself locked in a position with no clean exits.
Two opponents.
One of them already proven fast enough to put a special round through a tree trunk at distance.
His right hand remained a twisted, throbbing ruin of broken fingers and swelling flesh, the bones only beginning the slow work of realignment under regeneration.
The pierced leg still hurt with every shift of weight, the muscle and tendon knitting but far from ready for another explosive burst.
A distraction would not buy him the space he needed.
A bad lie would almost certainly end with a hole through his skull.
He thought on his feet, the concussion still fogging the edges of his focus, and chose the narrowest possible improvisation.
"I lost it."
The words came flat and sparse. He offered nothing more. The less he said, the fewer threads she could pull.
