“Freya,” he calls, following me through the foyer, “don’t walk out on me. Stay and fight. That’s what we do. That’s what we’ve always done.” I freeze, my hand hovering over the door handle. Peering over my shoulder, I meet his eyes. “You’re right. We used to. But then you quit. Now I’m quitting, too.” “Freya!” I drag the door shut and yell over my shoulder, “Don’t. Follow me.”
