Evelyn looked down at the scarred man on her floor.
His gray eyes were wide with fear.
She had seen that same look for years—every night while watching her husband slowly lose his battle with illness. She knew what desperation looked like.
The bat slipped from her hands.
“Then stop standing there,” she said sharply. “Get them inside. Now.”
They poured through the door like ghosts.
Some walked. Others stumbled. A few had to be carried.
Snow blew in behind them as the last one crossed the threshold.
Evelyn counted automatically.
Eighteen.
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