"He's still breathing," the farmer said hoarsely.
He looks so boyish, she thought. I can't believe ... he doesn't seem a killer. I hate whoever made a killer out of him.
Walt's chest rose and fell; his breath entered his body in tremulous gasps.
She wanted to bathe his face with cool water and rest his head on her lap. She wanted to ease his pain.
She turned away.
In the tool compartment of the wreck she located a tire iron. She brought it back.
Her hand was slippery around the icy metal.
He's dying anyway, she thought. It doesn't have to be my hand that kills him. Tears formed in her eyes.
Walt moaned.
Julia's hand tightened on the tire iron.