“There she goes. Running flat out. Little Sojourner. Not really dressed
for a sprint. Moves pretty fast for a woman of her age though. She’s
carrying something. Hard to see from this far away.
Maybe, if we moved a little closer.
Sojourner has a gun in each hand. She swings them, awkwardly as she
dashes across the gravel. Barefoot. Her evening dress looks a mess. That
backpack looks heavy. There’s a sheen to her dark skin. But, look; it
isn’t sweat. It’s blood.
That isn’t a pattern on her dress either. That’s blood too. Her braids
are spraying a trail of red in their wake. That’s a lot of blood.
It’s not her blood.”