He started for the doorway. Reaching it he stopped, and stood perfectly still. As the battle raged inside him.
"Morgan, please." He turned to face her. She was love and loss personified.
His shoulders went limp, and the rifle slid halfway down his arm. He had never felt so empty. Twenty seconds.
He lifted the strap of the rifle, leaned the weapon against the corner by the door. He walked past them and into the bedroom.
Un-shouldering his pack as they followed him in, he unfastened the flaps at the top and took something out of it. Steel hoops on a black chain shone silver. The man placed one cuff around his wrist, hooked the other to the metal bedpost. He took a set of keys from his pocket. . .and threw them across the room.
He slid to the floor, covered his face with his arm.
"Morgan," she said quietly. "What are you doing?"
"I love you." His sobs were audible.
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