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Killing was easy, mostly. Until Wash died.
And then Zoe got to thinking, more than she ever had, about the mothers and fathers of the faceless boys she'd taken down in the name of independence. She'd seen them, once or twice, in her dreams, young men grasping at glory and finding only bullets. Shadowed hands, reaching out to catch them, parents who could never stop wanting them safe.
Wouldn't they mourn as much as her husband's had?
Wouldn't they?