“I am not a threat to you.” The man puts his back against the wall and folds his arms.
I scruff the dirt with the toecap of my boot, drawing a thick line down the middle of the room. “If you are not a threat, you will stay on that side of the line. Then I won’t kill you.” I extend my hand to him. “Give me back my knife.”
The man nods and draws his own weapon, a long, thick blade with a heavy handle. It’s the kind of weapon purpose made for this job. Sturdy. Sharp. When I kill him, it will be mine.
He returns my knife point first, forcing me to take hold of the sharp edge. He’s done this before. I can’t grip it tightly enough to harm him or I cut myself and by the time I have readjusted, he will be ready for me. As soon as I touch the knife, we both jump away from the line, our backs against the walls of the shack.
“What is your name?” he asks.
“Why do you care about my name?”
He shrugs. “I don’t.”
Again, he just shrugs. “Does it matter?”
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