Armstrong's POV
The handcuffs were too tight. The metal bit into my wrists with a cold, impersonal finality that made my stomach twist. I sat in the back of the county sheriff's cruiser, watching the world I controlled pass by through a cage window.
Two deputies up front. Young. Bored. They'd been told to transport the "disturbed criminal" to the county lock-up for processing. They didn't know the details. Just orders. They saw the rickety cabin, the tied-up man, the weird family watching from the porch. They heard the wild story from a frantic reporter who'd arrived just before them. It looked messy. It looked personal. They wanted it to be someone else's problem.
That was my opening.
I let my head hang. I made my breathing ragged. I'd spent years reading people, acting a part. This was just another role. The broken hero.
"Hey," I mumbled, leaning forward as far as the cuffs would allow. "You guys… you guys got any water?"
