Now the man said, “Bitch,” and raised the gun, and in a second yellow flash that slammed that terrible bang into Graham’s ears again, he saw the dark mask, heard his mother’s scream, and understood the man had shot his mom and dad, and now he launched himself across the bed in a fury belying his years, mouth torn wide in a scream of his own, a scream he could barely hear over the drone in his ears. His tiny body struck the man’s shoulder and Graham held on tight, clawing at that mask, slamming it with his fist, the hard skull underneath hurting his hand.