I have to ask. “Did you remember . . . ?” “That you shot me?” He says it lightly, but I can almost taste the undercurrent of bitterness. “Yes,” he says, lowering his eyes, “but I remember that I let you.” I smile, thin and pained. “It was the only way. Neizghání would have never—” “I know,” he says gently. “I remember it all now.” “I’m sorry.” He shakes his head. “There’s no reason to be sorry. We agreed. I agreed.”
