Vic then pulls a small pocketknife from his jacket, cuts his palm, and offers the blade out to me. I take it, slicing my own palm and curling my fingers through his, our wedding bands brushing together. We look at each other, past our clasped hands, and he smiles. “Blood in,” Victor tells me with a nod of his chin. “Blood out.” Together, we walk hand-in-hand through the gravestones toward Vic’s waiting bike.
